


Pocket Full of Horses

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Artist Steve Rogers, Awful Fast Food Jobs, Awkwardness, BAMF Natasha Romanoff, Bullying, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Eventual Smut, High School AU, Jock Bucky, M/M, Orphaned Characters, Pining, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Skinny Steve, Steve Rogers is the Edgy Angsty Awkward Heroine, Take that Tony, Teen Movies, Tony Stark is the Cheating Diva, all the more Bucky for Steve, and Bucky is better off without Tony
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:57:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4644801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stucky. Small, asthmatic, and unpopular, Steve Rogers would give anything for everyone to just leave him alone.<br/>Everyone, except the hot jock in the hot red car. Even if he won’t admit it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Call it Hell, Call it Home Room

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what this even is. I prefer college AUs, except for when I write Archies fic, but even then, I love writing those, too. And I might have watched She’s All That and 10 Things I Hate About You about a thousand too many times… like any other kid born in the seventies, I spent the eighties wishing I had Molly Ringwald’s clothes from her three best-known movies.

Steve’s clock radio blared Ed Sheeran’s “Don’t” at obnoxiously loud volume, and he smothered a groan in the pillow. Last night’s all-nighter was a bad idea, granted, but art mid-term projects didn’t paint themselves. He rubbed the grit out of his eyes and made a sound of disgust at the smudges of blue paint still embedded under his short nails.

“Steve?” Henry called from the foot of the stairs. “I’ve got an early meeting. If you want a ride this morning, you need to take a shower now. And make it quick.”

“All right,” he croaked back. Inertia weighed down his gangly limbs as he stared up at the ceiling. Wednesdays were the worst days. Wednesdays meant chapter exams, Salisbury steak in the lunch line, and PE class. But catching a ride with Henry at least meant he wouldn’t end up on the cross-town bus or risking his bike in the parking rack. Three weeks ago, the school custodian found his bike on the school roof after the jocks cut his lock off of it, leaving him with no explanation for Henry when he walked all the way home. Steve only felt slightly vindicated when Principal Richards stored Steve’s bike in the field house shed for him once it was recovered, but it still rankled.

“Your bike might not get lost if you put a little bell on it, Rogers,” Brock told him with a leer the next day, as Steve made his way through the courtyard from the bus stop. He had another week until payday, when he would be able to afford a kryptonite bike lock, but in the meantime, why risk it? “Sometimes they wander off.”

“Sure they do, Brock,” he tossed back dryly as he headed to his locker.

“Just trying to help you out, Rogers!”

“What would I ever do without you?”

“I know, right?” Brock elbowed one of his friends, who eyed Steve up and down.

“Must be raiding better dumpsters lately, Rogers. Love that shirt!”

The heckling was never-ending.

Steve stumbled down the steps and staggered into the shower, clutching the same damp towel he’d left on his bedroom floor the day before. Janet would be after him to pick up his room when he got home, but his art project was important to finish, and time got away from him. He cranked on the shower and leaned into the spray, disappointed that it felt like most of the hot water in the tank was used up, already. The warm spray still felt good on his stiff neck and shoulders, hunched from leaning over his easel and canvas for four straight hours. Steve had rolled up one of his shirts and laid it across the gap between the edge of his bedroom door and the floor to keep the light from his desk lamp from shining into the hall and waking everybody up. His placement with the Pyms had been a good match, but Steve still watched his step. He only had one more year before he aged out of the system, even though Janet and Henry didn’t shove that fact down his throat. Steve didn’t even mind Hope, his foster sister, all that much most of the time.

“Steve!” Her loud banging on the bathroom door interrupted his reverie, and he accidentally rinsed shampoo foam into his eyes, making him curse. “I need to get in there and get my hair thingies!”

“All right! All right, already, just gimme a minute!” he bellowed as he dunked his head under the spray, amending his previous claim: He didn’t mind Hope _most_ of the time. Hope Pym was seven, precocious like her dad, just as spoiled as her mother, and she had a knack for asking Steve awkward questions. But for the most part, he indulged her, since she was one of the only people in his life that didn’t make fun of him for the hearing aid, his bifocals, or being the shortest kid in every one of his class pictures. Steve figured she might keep treating him okay until she grew tall enough to tower over him like everyone else.

“Come on, Steve!” she whined, slapping the door impatiently. Steve made a long-suffering noise and slapped off the shower abruptly, grabbing for his towel and wrapping up in it without blotting himself off first. He shot her an evil look.  
“Brat,” he muttered. “Give a guy a chance, will ya?” Hope stuck out her tongue. He thumbed his nose at her and stuck his tongue out back, mimicking her girlish tones and “Come on, Steves!” as he rushed up the steps.  
“Mom, Steve’s picking on me!” she called out.

“Be nice,” Janet replied, sounding distracted from her bedroom on the first floor. Steve figured she was probably applying the first coat of Aqua Net by now and getting the edge of her lipliner just right. “Hurry up, Steve, so Henry doesn’t miss his meeting.”

“I know,” he muttered. “Give a guy a chance, fer cryin’ out loud,” he mused to his empty room as he scrambled in his drawer for a pair of boxers, undershirt and socks. He hopped into his underpants and perused his closet for decent offerings, deciding on his old Silvertab jeans – they were a three-dollar thrift store find, and he didn’t give a damn if no one wore them anymore, they were relaxed fit and it wouldn’t be the end of the world if he got paint on them – and a slightly battered blue flannel. Once in a while, the Salvation Army store had ugly old paintings that he scored for the purpose of painting over them, but he shopped there for clothes, too, if only to avoid the local galleria. Steve hated crowds and how claustrophobic he felt in the food court or the elevators, running into any of his peers that worked at Foot Locker, Lids or Spencer’s, since they didn’t stop hating him just because they weren’t in school… the list of reasons was endless.

Steve rubbed his hair dry and let it settle into place, barely combing it with his fingers. He needed it cut again at some point; the back of it was dusting his shirt collar. On went his bifocals, in went his hearing aid, and he crammed his smartphone and housekeys into his big pocket. He grabbed his large leather portfolio and slung the strap over his shoulder before he retrieved his backpack. He hurried down the stairs and crammed his feet into his Vans where they rested by the welcome mat. Janet hated people walking on her cream-colored berber carpet in their shoes. Steve set down his pack and folio long enough to root through the fridge. He grabbed the milk jug and swigged down a few gulps.

“Oh, Steven,” Janet tsked, “that’s nasty. _So_ unsanitary.” She reached for a glass in the cupboard and took the jug from him, pouring him a proper drink. “I already made eggs.”

“I’m not that hungry,” Steve hedged. He didn’t want to tell her after all this time that he hated eggs and always had, but being in the foster system so long had taught him not to be finicky. “Do we have any bread?”

“One piece left,” she offered, handing him the bag.

“I want it!” Hope whined. “I want toast,” she informed her mother. She stared up at Steve expectantly. He huffed and handed her the last slice, then took the heels from the bag and threw them into the toaster. Steve tugged on one of Hope’s pigtails.

“You’re all crooked,” he told her.

“Am not,” she argued as Janet poured her some milk.

“Your hair, squirt.” He took her shoulders and turned her to the side and undid her hair bobble, taking down her lopsided pigtail. Steve combed his long, slender fingers through her brown waves and pulled them into a neater ponytail, wrapping and snapping the beads into place. “Turn,” he snapped briefly, and she automatically gave him her other side to fix the second one. “Don’t wanna go out the door with your head all crooked.”

“ _Your_ head’s all crooked,” Hope argued, grinning and thumbing her nose at him.

“Why on earth did you teach her that?” Janet muttered helplessly. “I’m in a kitchen full of hooligans.” She paused in unscrewing a jar of strawberry jam and yelled toward the ceiling, “HENRY! Do you have your keys?”  
“Yes!” he called down to her impatiently. Jan made a face at his tone as she spread Hope’s toast, muttering something under her breath that sounded disparaging to Steve. His foster parents weren’t Mike and Carol Brady, but he didn’t need them to be perfect.  
Hope was rummaging through her Lisa Frank backpack for something while Janet was setting her breakfast in front of her. "Homework should have been done last night," she reminded her.

"I did it," Hope insisted. "I have a permission slip that you hafta sign, Mom." Janet sighed.

"I can't drive this time, sweetie. Make sure to let your teacher know." Janet Pym became a popular room parent from the very first field trip, and she found herself more than once hauling a Honda Odyssey full of screeching grade schoolers to auditoriums, beaches, baseball fields and museums. Being helpful she didn't mind, but it felt like being taken advantage of after about the tenth time or so, and May Parker, whose nephew Ben sat in the front row of Hope's class, with the scabby knees and Coke bottle glasses, drove him to school in a perfectly roomy Windstar van. She could take the helm this time, surely.

Henry entered the kitchen and prodded Steve briefly. "Let's head out, I can't run late, buddy." Steve grabbed his toast and wrapped it in the paper towel that he ripped from the roll above the counter. He tripped out the door after a quick kiss on Janet's cheek that made her beam. Steve slid his portfolio into the back seat, and he was about to climb into the front, until Henry chided him.

"Just ride in the back. That way I can let you out and you can pull it out with you instead of making me wait for you on the curb to open both doors." Steve sighed heavily.

"Fine."

"I can't be late," Henry reminded him for the umpteenth time. "This is an important client."

"I know. Sorry." Even though he hadn't really done anything wrong. Steve climbed into the back and buckled up, feeling like he was still young enough to need a booster seat, for crying out loud… 

Reflections of the trees and sunlight flickered over the lenses of Steve’s glasses as Henry wove through early morning traffic, and he zoned out a little as he listened to Henry’s corny music, “Mandolin Rain” or some such eighties-sounding, whiny nonsense. Steve chewed his thumbnail, then made a face when he realized there was still a chunk of acrylic paint under it. At least it wasn’t oil, or turpentine…

“You work today, don’t you?” Henry asked, jerking him out of his reverie.

“Shit…shoot. Sorry. Yeah, I do.” Steve had forgotten his work uniform, after all the trouble he went to of washing it the night before. _Shit, shit, shit…_ It wasn’t shaping up to be his kind of day. Obviously.

“Might be able to ask Jan if she can drop it off for you on her lunch hour. She can leave it at the front office,” Henry suggested. “Send her a message really fast.” Steve rummaged around in his backpack, but he couldn’t find his phone. Henry saw him struggling in the rearview mirror as he neared the school.

“Can you call her for me? Please?” he asked desperately. 

“I’m pushing it for time, Steve!”

“Please?” Steve hated begging Henry for anything, with all of his lectures about responsibility and being accountable for his own blah-blah-blah, but he’d screwed this up himself, hadn’t he? “Just drop me here at the corner,” he told him, wanting to save him the trouble of trying to turn around in the school’s drop-off court. Henry dutifully pulled up to the curb and parked, and he started speaking into the air as he pushed the button on his phone, propped on its speaker deck on top of the dash.

“Siri, call Janet Pym,” he barked. He listened to it ring three times before Jan picked up, sounding just as harried as Henry.

“What’s wrong?” she asked out of long habit.

“Steve forgot his work clothes. Can you drop them off for him at lunch?” Henry waved Steve impatiently out of the car, and Steve hugged his portfolio against himself as he hauled himself out.

“That’s fine.” She sounded long-suffering, but Steve sighed with relief.

“Thanks, Janet!” he called out as he ran toward the main building of the school. He closed the door a little too hard. “Thanks, Henry!”

“Watch that door!” Henry yelled out the window. 

“Sorry!” Steve called back. He returned Henry’s dismissive wave as he tore down the street toward his clients and his peaceful desk and his overpriced coffee because that was just how Henry Pym rolled. Steve trudged along, adjusting his portfolio and catching his backpack straps just as they were sliding off his shoulders. He felt his shoelace slap the ground, cursing under his breath when he realized he’d have to halt his progress toward homeroom to tie it. His backpack strap fell the rest of the way off his shoulder as he crouched to tie it.

He was just making the second bunny ear with his laces when he felt his portfolio being swiped from under his arm. “HEY! WHAT… GIVE IT BACK, BROCK!”

“Let’s see what Rogers has been workin’ on, pretending he’s some little Michelangelo… “ The rangy-looking quarterback was jerking open the snap that held it shut and reaching in to grab Steve’s18 by 24 canvas board that he’d spent hours finishing, and he crowed, waving it up for everyone in the near vicinity to see, enjoying the spectacle he was making. “Awwwww, widdle Stevie Wogers made a pwetty pictuuuuurrrrree… this looks nice enough for your mommy to hang up on the refrigerator, Stevie! Did you fingerpaint it all by yourself?”

“Give it back! Asshat, _give it back…!_ ” Steve rushed at him, but Brock grinned, giving little looks of surprise as he hoisted it over his head. Steve grabbed the front of his letterman’s jacket, but Brock snarled and shoved him, almost knocking him off his feet.

“Say please, Rogers! Remember your manners, and you’ll get it back,” he huffed, laughing. “You don’t have shit, Rogers.” Steve fought him, but Brock kept shoving him, and two of Brock’s cronies showed up behind him, taking the painting from him while Brock jacked Steve up by the front of his shirt. Steve bit his tongue when Brock shoved him back against the wall leading up to the front door. Steve kicked him in the kneecap, and Brock cursed, shoving him back again. Steve felt the back of his skull bruise, and he stared up into Brock’s face, so full of contempt, so pleased with himself.

“You’ve got nothing, Rogers. I should just throw that painting in the dumpster to spare anyone havin’ to look at it.”

“Like hell,” Steve grunted. Brock’s knuckles were balled up in his shirt, digging into his bony chest. “I’ve gotta turn it in.”

“Maybe I’ll throw _you_ in the dumpster, too,” Brock told him, and his brown eyes were so hard and cruel, pupils dilating. Steve could see the pores in his face and his hint of dark stubble on his swarthy, angular face, could smell his hard breath tinged with the stench of cigarettes. Behind him, his friends were making wisecracks about Steve’s painting, rubbing thumbs over the texture of the paint to try to scratch lumps of it off.

“DON’T! You’ll ruin it!”

“HEY!” Both of them turned at the sound of a strident, slightly nasal female voice. “Leave him alone, Rumlow! Don’t you have anything better to do than pick on Twelve-and-Under? Someone’ll call CPS on your ass for committing child abuse,” Natasha informed Brock.

“What? Steve? He can stand up for himself,” he huffed, but he was loosening his grip on him slightly, then cuffed Steve upside the head. “Right, Rogers?”

Steve’s blue eyes narrowed. 

“Is that right?” Natasha mused. She made a small “hm” and shrugged. “This is called a ‘distraction,’ Steve.”

“Huh?” Brock’s brows drew together, and his gaze swung back around to Steve. The bony blond’s hands grabbed Brock’s shoulders and he heaved his face forward and headbutted him with an audible smack. 

He saw stars. Pain exploded through his flesh like lightning, but it had the desired result. Steve was reeling, but he shoved past Brock, who was moaning and cursing, holding the bridge of his nose.

“Sonofa… sonofa _bitch_!” Steve went up to Brock’s friends, who were still toying with the idea of keeping his art project, but Natasha wasn’t having it.

“Hand it over,” she barked, menace gleaming in her green eyes. “NOW.” The taller of the two of them tried to be clever and hold it over her head, not hard when she was five-two and weighed a buck-oh-five. “Oh, you think you’re clever?”

It was the Purple Nerple heard ‘round the world. Steve winced at the almost shrill yowl that rang out through the courtyard when she reached out and dug her fingers into his sensitive pecs, finding his nipples unerringly through the thin weave of his thin Izod shirt. He brought his arm down reflexively to protect himself, and Natasha snatched the painting back. Steve took it from her with shaking hands, stuffing it back into his portfolio. “That was some fucked up shit, and you _know_ it. Are you proud of yourselves? Huh?” she huffed, practically stabbing her finger into his teeth. “ _Don’t_ let me see you pulling that crap again.” She gave him a savage shove, but she turned to find Brock round on Steve again, grabbing his arm to jack him up again. “Not today, Rumlow.”

“What, are you his babysitter, Nat? What do you think _you_ -“

She had his arm twisted behind him and making incoherent noises where he knelt on the concrete. Steve straightened his shirt and pack, pushing his glasses back up onto his nose where they belonged. “Uncle,” she muttered in Brock’s ear. “Uncle with sugar on top.”

“Uncle,” he rasped. “ _Uncle!_ ”

“With sugar, don’t forget the sugar,” she cooed as she gave his arm another twist. 

“With… sugar on top!” He was breathing roughly through his nose and looked good and rumpled.

“Meet me at my locker, Rogers,” Nat huffed.

“Lunch instead,” he told her as he headed for the door. “Let him up.”

“You’re welcome,” she called after him. 

“You’re _twisted._ ”

“You’re _welcome._ ” She let Brock up and he shuffled away from her, taking her _I’m watching you_ gesture of two fingers pointed at her eyes with him as she left. 

Sometimes it was nice having the scariest girl in school for a friend. Steve had a relatively small circle of acquaintances from being shifted in and out of various foster homes, some of which meant having to change schools as soon as he’d met anyone new. There also weren’t many people he trusted, either. Natasha Romanoff (Romanova, before her adoptive family changed it, thinking foolishly that it would help her to “fit in better”) was the only person who had an inkling how he felt, having lost her own parents at a young age; her father had mob connections and was found face-down in the river. Her mother died in an “accident” involving a blown-out tire and a suspicious cut brake line. Her adoptive parents took her in when she was five, and she was the only friend Steve had who stubbornly stuck by his side no matter how much he moved around. When he returned to his original school district after the Pyms took him in, they became thick as thieves again, and Natasha pulled him into her tight-knit group, all misfits, but all of them genuine, snarky and awesome.

Steve headed to his locker to empty half the contents from his backpack into it to lighten his load, keeping his binder and trigonometry text. His stomach growled, and he realized he left his toast in the back of Henry’s car, which he knew his foster dad would nag him about when he got home, because heaven forbid he desecrate the pristine perfection of his leather seats. He rummaged in the top shelf of his locker and found a forgotten pack of Starbursts with two left inside the crumpled wrapper.

“Ooh, kick down!” Clint demanded, coming up alongside him and leaning over Steve’s shoulder. Steve sighed and let Clint pick out the first one. He made a face. “Not the green one, dude! I HATE green!”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Steve reminded him, but he took the janky green one and let Clint have the remaining red. Clint clapped his shoulder fondly. “Your girlfriend is frightening,” Steve told him.

“Where is she?” Clint asked him as he sucked the unwrapped sweet into his mouth. 

“Left her in the courtyard a second ago after she made Brock cry.”

“What’s that mark on your head?” Clint reached out and probed the reddened spot on Steve’s forehead. Steve winced. “Ooh. Nice. Someone got ya good.”

“Brock,” Steve told him. “I had him on the ropes…”

“Headbutted him again, didn’t you? Rogers, have I taught you nothing? Go for the nuts. Good, swift nard punch does the trick every time. Minimal damage to you. Not like Brock has any nuts, anyway…”

“Easier to just wait for Nat,” Steve muttered. Clint grinned. 

“Sorry now that I missed it.” The homeroom bell began to ring, and they joined the foot traffic in the corridor and waded toward Mr. Howlett’s classroom, hurrying to their seats just as he began to take roll. 

“BARTON. Flattered that ya decided t’grace us with yer presence,” the grizzled teacher drawled as he marked Clint present. Steve sneezed slightly at the smell of sawdust. Of course his homeroom happened to be in the wood shop lab… He sat on the metal stool, peering inside his portfolio at his painting. It looked unharmed, but it still chafed him how those bastards were manhandling his hard work. At least it was a canvas board instead of a stapled canvas, or with his luck, they would have punched their fingers through it and ruined it during the scuffle.

“Yo,” Clint answered, raising his hand in a curt little wave. He winked and made shooty-fingers. Mr. Howlett grunted and rolled his eyes.

“Bishop.”

“Yo,” Lucas mimicked.

“Present,” Howlett corrected him tersely.

“Right,” Lucas murmured sheepishly.

“Cage.”

“Here.”

“Danvers.”

“Ready to work,” she reported with a tight little smile that he returned.

“I’ll believe it when I see that hook shot, young lady. Grey.”

“Present,” Jean assured him as she paused in filing her nails.

“Grey,” he said again. “Earbuds in the backpack, Nate, or they stay in my drawer until last bell.” The auburn-haired junior unplugged them and turned off his little iPod, tucking the whole thing in the pocket of his Jansport.

“Yes, sir.”

“Laufeyson.”

“Present.” Loki’s tone, crisp and smooth, sounded like he couldn’t give two shits about it, either.

“Odinson.”

“Present, sir,” Thor assured him in booming tones, with a confident smile. Guy always looked like he stepped out of a Colgate whitening strip commercial. Clint took to calling him “The Freshmaker” under his breath, but he didn’t mean it with any hostility. Thor was just… _Thor._ He continued reading his Hamlet paperback and munching on the remains of a Pop-Tart.

“Parker.”

“Here.” The skinny journalism buff was fiddling with his tablet, no doubt finishing one of his articles… or a text to his girlfriend Gwen. He was one of Steve’s friends, too, a “Hard Knock Lifer” (coined so by Clint) who lived with his elderly aunt after his parents disappeared in a plane crash over the Atlantic. Peter Parker knew his way around the Brocks of the world, too, with quick, evasive moves and even quicker wit. He was smart, he was decent, and he knew what it was like to feel a little lost, sometimes, and like an outcast.

“Pryde.”

“Here in body, not in spirit,” she quipped. “Does that count?”

“For the moment,” Mr. Howlett told her. “Smart aleck…”

He read the boring announcements, led them in the pledge, and reminded them all that picture day was on Friday. Before the bell rang, Howlett called Steve up to his desk. The shop teacher leaned in and gestured for Steve to draw in close, too.

“What happened outside? I hear comments from the peanut gallery that ya got into it with Rumlow. That true?”

“He kinda got into it with me, sir. I don’t… I don’t like to start trouble.”

“Nah. Ya don’t,” he agreed soberly. “But don’t let that slide and think that ya hafta handle that yerself. Yer teachers owe it to ya ta look after yer safety, kid. That’s called zero tolerance, and yer a good kid, Rogers. Ya are.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Now, go siddown.”

“Right.” Steve no sooner sat than the bell rang, and he had to get back up again, anyway. He grabbed his pack and folio and headed for first period, thankfully avoiding Brock and his friends on the way. He ducked over a water fountain just outside the class before walking in, feeling his backpack strap slip off his shoulder again as he took several thirsty gulps. 

He felt a light kick against the back of his ankle, and Steve choked, spraying water up his nose from the spout.

“Some time today, okay? Nobody else was thirsty, or anything. Sheesh.” Steve gagged and coughed as he straightened up, wiping drops of water off his nose.

“*kkkarrggghhh…* shit…”

“Nice,” murmured the amused brunet hovering over him. “Went down the wrong pipe?”

“Sinuses are squeaky clean now. Thanks. Really.” Steve glared up at… Bucky.

Shit. _Shit._ Well-shaped, rich, pink lips twitched with amusement. 

“Glad I could help.” Bucky was nonplussed as he bent for a drink. Steve was riveted for a moment as he drank, water bubbling over that mouth, throat working it down, watching that _ass_ as he bent over the fountain in the snug, dark-wash skinny jeans. 

_Mind outta the gutter, Rogers._ Bucky straightened up and wiped his mouth with his fingertips, and Steve’s eyes tracked the gesture, making him lick his own lips. His eyes flitted back up to Bucky’s, and he felt himself turn beet red. Steve turned on his heel and darted off. Bucky frowned slightly.

“Hey,” he called after him, “what’s wrong with your face?”

“It’s my _face,_ ” Steve replied as he stalked off. “Never _mind_ , Barnes!”

“Rogers… geez,” Bucky muttered. “Wait up! C’mon!” He hurried after him, ducking through the tide of students rushing down the corridor. “Steve… c’mon.” He caught him, reaching for his shoulder to stop him. Steve turned to face him, and his attempt at a glare was lukewarm at best. Bucky reached out and brushed Steve’s bangs back from his forehead, wincing at the beginnings of a bruise. “What’d you do now, Steve?”

“It was nothing,” he assured him. “Rumlow was trying to take my homework.”

“Could’ve just used the ‘dog ate my homework’ excuse. Wouldn’t have been much of a lie,” Bucky told him.

“It was my art project. Can’t just whip one up in study hall,” Steve told him. “Look… I’m gonna be late,” he hedged. He backed away from Bucky, and his hair flopped back down over his glasses. Bucky held up his hands, conceding.

“Fine. I’ll leave you on your merry way.” Steve rushed off again, and his cheeks were _flaming_. 

Bucky touched him. He _talked_ to him. Bucky Barnes _touched_ him.

… and Steve had kinda acted like a dick when Bucky was just trying to be… nice. Kind of.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself, “shit, shit, _shit_.” He ignored the girls who were staring at him while he talked to himself. 

*

“Okay! Let’s get those canvases on those easels so I can see your finished work,” Margaret Power told the class, clapping her hands. Steve dug into his portfolio and selected a rusty metal easel, using a paper towel to dust off the pencil shavings and charcoal dust before he set down his canvas to be viewed and graded. “I want to see how well you guys were listening on my lecture about contouring and shading. I want to see five steps of shadow and light, I don’t want flat-looking solids, I want ellipses… you know what I want to see. This isn’t kindergarten where we color nicely in the lines.” Mrs. Power began to stroll through the studio, peering over shoulders and making thoughtful sounds. “Not bad. I like the negative space values. You could have captured the subject from closer up so you wouldn’t have had to work so hard on the background,” she told Rahne, the shy, red-haired freshman. “But you put some work into this.” She scribbled a grade in Sharpie ink on a Post-It and pasted it to the corner of Rahne’s canvas, and she looked relieved. Steve watched her expectantly, with knots in his stomach, as she continued to sweep the room. Her critiques weren’t exactly brutal, but growing as an artist was a slow struggle sometimes, and Steve’s paintings and drawings that he thought were great a year ago looked like garbage to him now.

But he’d put so much of himself into the canvas, even had to _fight_ his way to class with it, and he’d blow a gasket if his teacher-

“Steven. Can I see you after class?” Mrs. Power inquired politely. Steve’s gut twisted itself and his mouth went dry. She walked away from it without grading it, and his heart sank. His palms felt clammy, and he wondered what he did wrong… did she hate it that much?

Mrs. Power had them put away their canvases and turned down the lights, putting on a slide show of different statues that she wanted them to practice painting, both to capture the poses and the light sources where they hit the bodies. Steve felt numb, sketching with less conviction than usual on his blank canvas board. He felt clumsy with the vine charcoal stem between his fingers as he rendered the pose, then sprayed it with a generous coat of fixative. The ending bell jangled his nerves, and he hastily wiped his fingers on a small rag as he put away his drawing supplies. Mrs. Power locked up the cans of fixative in her cupboard and put away the canvases. “I’ll give out printouts of the statues the next time we meet, and you can start working on these at home, or after school if you sign in with me first.” Steve watched his friends file out of the studio, and he nervously approached, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Was… was something wrong with it?” he stammered, licking his lips and fidgeting. She shook her head.

“Steve… I wanted to talk to you about this.” She led him to her desk and dug out a flyer from her drawer. “This is a juried art show. I wanted to see if you would like to enter it in the amateur division.”

Relief washed through him. “Oh.” His voice was small and stunned.

“Interested?” she pressed. He nodded emphatically. “You looked a little gray a little while ago. You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m… I’m fine. Wow. An art show?”

“You have real talent, Steve. This is a true gift.” She tapped his painting lightly. “You really throw yourself onto your paintbrush. It’s not just another elective class with you. You seem to go to a different place when you draw and paint. Nothing against your classmates, because some of them show promise, but some of them really struggle to recreate what they see. When I look at this, and some of your other pieces that you’ve turned in, Steve, I want _to see what you see,_ and live in your world.”

“So. Um. Did I pass?” 

“Did you pass?” she chuckled. “Yes, Mr. Rogers, I think this means you passed. Here you go.” She slapped a Post-It with a big, fat ‘A’ on his canvas. “Get to class. Don’t talk to strangers, don’t take any wooden nickels…”

“Yeah, yeah,” he scoffed. It was their customary goodbye. 

“You’ve got four weeks to get something ready,” she called after him. Steve felt like he was walking on a cloud on his way to his next class.


	2. Extra Napkins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Tasty Taco. Home of the Tasty Taco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always loved the “Not Another Teen Movie” parody of all the movies I loved between the ages of thirteen to seventeen. Chris Evans quoting back Freddie Prinze Jr’s speech from “She’s All That?” How could you not love that? (That one came out when I was older, granted, but I mainlined John Hughes movies religiously.)
> 
> The nerdy, hapless lead always has to have a kinda lame part-time job on top of clueless but well-meaning parents. Or foster parents. Or one step-parent from hell. Or a single dad that needs their child to take care of _them_. Hello, Angsty Tropes…

“I think they ground up my biology lab assignment into the hot entrée,” Clint claimed. “Whaddya think? That look like a small intestine?” He prodded a chunk of meat floating in the nondescript brown gravy. Salisbury steak day was the worst day. 

“Then don’t eat it,” Natasha reasoned with him as she bit into her tuna sandwich that she’d wisely packed. She handed him the other half, and he gratefully looped his arm around her neck, kissing her temple. 

“You complete me,” he told her sappily.

“I keep you out of trouble. And, speaking of trouble… you didn’t have to headbutt him, y’know,” Nat told Steve as he returned to the lunch table with a tray that held a carton of skim milk, a tiny bag of Fritos, and a grilled cheese wrapped in wax paper that promised to be the consistency of a spare tire. 

“It worked, didn’t it?” He plunked himself down beside Sam, who stole a handful of his Fritos as soon as he opened the bag. “Hey!”

“Helpin’ you keep your girlish figure,” Sam insisted as he munched on the stolen chips. “How are you still alive, though?”

“What? I was supposed to let that dick take my homework?” Steve huffed as he bit into his sandwich. The face he made as he chewed it lacked rapture.

“Gotta stay under his radar, though.”

“I live on that guy’s radar. Might as well paint my whole body in day-glo paint, Sam.”

“Then you’d just be showing off, Steve. You’ll take any excuse to get your hands on some paint.” He grabbed his hand, tsking at the paint smudging his nails. “You’re a hot mess.”

Before Steve could snark back at Sam over his lack of support, he caught a glimpse of Bucky across the cafeteria, unwrapping and biting into a foot-long Subway BMT. Seniors could drive off-campus for lunch, and Steve envied him. Of course, maybe he didn’t need to stare at him so long as he ate, watching the motion of that full pink mouth, seeing his tongue dart out and lick up a dab of mustard from his lip…

“Pitiful,” Sam accused as he stole another of Steve’s chips. “Take a picture, Steve. It’ll last longer. Shoot, draw one, if you stare at him long enough like that.”

“Fuck off,” Steve told him under his breath as he averted his eyes. It was just as well. Brock, Flash, and a pack of varsity team members descended upon Bucky at the table, and Steve didn’t need to be caught staring by that crowd. Wanda, a petite, striking brunette, took up her place on Bucky’s lap as though she owned it, and that made Steve’s flush hotly. They weren’t an item - _yet_ \- but Wanda made it plain she was interested. Judging by Bucky’s easy smile, and his gentle hand resting on the small of her back, it wasn’t exactly one-sided, either… one would assume.

When Steve assumed things, his life generally sucked.

*

Steve remembered five minutes before the lunch period ended that he needed to check the office to see if Janet dropped off his work clothes. He got up and cleared his tray, then hurried back to grab his pack and folio. Clint and Nat looked up from the bottle of Yoo-Hoo they were sharing. “What, you’re bailing already?” Clint demanded.

“Gotta get my work clothes. If Jan dropped them off. Forgot ‘em this morning when Henry gave me the bum’s rush out the door.”

“You’ve gotta get a car,” Sam told him, sighing. 

“Ain’t gonna happen on twenty hours a week at Tasty Taco,” Steve reminded him. “And I’ve got a car.” Kind of. It was his “science project” at the garage behind the pick-and-pull yard, and Steve was claiming it one part at a time.

“Lulu doesn’t count, Steve.” Sam gave him a long-suffering sigh. He fist-bumped him. “Later, man.”

“I’ll be off tonight at seven,” Steve told them as he took off.

“Just don’t eat the food!” Natasha called after him. “Don’t you eat it, either,” she told Clint.

“But… _tacos,_ ” Clint whined.

“Tasty Tacos really _are_ made out of small intestine,” she warned him. “ _No._ ” He pouted. She kissed him, and he made a helpless sound of resignation.

The jock table watched Steve rush off, and Brock made a sound of disgust. “Asshole…”

“Dude, how’s your nose?” Flash teased. “Rogers got you good!”

“He would have been a grease spot on the wall if Romanoff hadn’t shown up. She’s his watchdog,” Brock said sourly. 

“Isn’t she like, a size two?” Bucky pointed out. “And didn’t she manhandle you like a bitch? Like, on more than one occasion?” Wanda snickered from his lap and helped herself to a sip of his Gatorade Ice. She didn’t weigh all that much, but Bucky’s leg was getting numb from her hanging out on his lap for the whole period. It was cute for five minutes, but c’mon. Let a guy eat in peace. To her credit, she smelled really nice; Bucky didn’t mind the light fragrance of her shampoo wafting up from her long, soft, wavy brown hair.

Bucky was just beginning to mock-scold Wanda for stealing his chips when a familiar, drawling baritone made him freeze up and momentarily forget his own name.

“Yes, waiter, I’ll take the chicken picatta and the hot, blue-eyed brunet to go?” Wanda was able to turn around more easily to greet the source, and her eyes lit up. She launched herself from Bucky’s lap – to his silent relief – and glomped the medium height, slender upperclassman, who at the moment looked tan, highly confident that he was the smartest person in the room, and amused at the company Bucky was keeping. Tony Stark accepted Wanda’s hug with a low “oof!” and winked at Bucky, who was craning himself around in his chair, with questions in his eyes. 

Hot, blue-eyed brunet… because of _course_ Tony could aim that pick-up line at the girl in his arms, _or_ the suddenly moody quarterback leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. Tony’s dark eyes raked over Bucky, gleaming with amusement, and a hunger that Bucky knew too well. He hardened himself against that smirk. It had been his one weakness since their sophomore year.

“Where have you been keeping yourself?” Wanda demanded, drawing back and punching Tony’s arm. He mouthed an “ow,” rubbing it, then shrugging.

“Here and there. Young inventor’s conference in Switzerland. Tagged along with Pop to Rome for a couple of weeks. Might’ve trashed a room in a hostel in Dusseldorf. Nothing all that remarkable. Are those the chili-flavored ones?” Tony reached into Bucky’s Frito bag without permission, but Bucky didn’t deny him.

Bucky _never_ denied him. Then again, who ever denied Tony Stark anything?

“How was the flight back?” he asked him calmly.

“Fantastic, Barnes, but man, are my arms _tired._ ”

“Ha, ha, that’s… that’s funny, Tony.”

“It was a real knee-slapper. I’m hilarious.” Bucky gave him a squinty, insincere smile that showed no teeth and was full of fuck-offs. He let it drop once Tony’s short attention span stole the moment. He whirled on the rest of the table. “So.” He clapped his hands. “What’d I miss?”

“Brock getting his ass kicked,” Flash told him eagerly. He winced when Brock roughly punched him.

“By Romanoff,” Eddie Brock chimed in through a mouthful of French bread pizza. “It was classic!”

“Wait… by tiny, ninety-five pounds soaking wet _Nat?_ ” Tony whistled, making what would be a sympathetic face on anyone else. “That’s it. Hand back your man card. God called, he wants your testosterone back…” He made a grabby gesture. “Cough it up…”

“He had it coming,” Bucky cut in sharply. Tony’s eyes flitted back to him. Brock glared. Bucky gave Brock a challenging look. “You were bein’ a dick,” he informed him simply. 

Tony cocked one brow.

“I was just messin’ with Rogers. Fucking loser,” Brock huffed. “I took his wussy painting from him. He couldn’t handle it. Almost made him cry…”

“He headbutted him for it,” Bucky interrupted again, a hint of glee in his voice.

Amusement played at the corners of Tony’s mouth. “ _Really._ ” He glanced at Brock again. “So you got powned by a couple of munchkins today? Did Nat stand on Steve’s shoulders?” That sent a round of chuckles around the table. But Tony’s eyes traveled back to Bucky.

His smile didn’t reach his blue eyes.

*

Bucky caught up to him before their last period, where he was holding court with a ring of underclassmen, loudly bragging about Dusseldorf again. He reached for the slender, silver cat ear headband that one of them wore and demanded to try it on, making her giggle. “Is this a good look?” Bucky heard him ask as he approached.

“It’s a little much,” Bucky told him. 

“Think so?” Tony deadpanned. “I think it brings out my eyes…”

“Can I steal him for a minute, ladies?” Bucky asked them politely, giving them a winning smile. He plucked the ridiculous accessory from Tony’s head and handed it back to the petite sophomore. The girls pouted slightly as he took away their entertainment, even as they watched them both walk away in appreciation, because who didn’t like watching Bucky Barnes walking away in skinny jeans?

Bucky’s grip on Tony’s arm was insistent but not harsh as he pulled him into an empty classroom. “Someone’s in a mood,” Tony remarked casually. He leaned back against one of the desks, crossing his ankles with a graceful flick. “What’s on your mind?”

“Dusseldorf,” Bucky muttered.

“Ahhhhh.”Tony nodded knowingly, shaking his finger. “Right. Guess you’re a little curious about that…”

“You were on ‘E!’,” Bucky told him flatly.

“Did they get my good side, at least?”

“If you’re ‘good side’ was the one showing when you had your tongue down that guy’s throat in front of, oh, about fifty-odd cameras, then sure. _I think they got it, Anthony._ ” Tony winced, then spread his hands.

“It was more like sixty… Bucky! Baby, don’t be like that…”

“Like what? Don’t get mad when I see my boyfriend making out with someone else when I turned on my TV?”

“I mostly do Netflix, now. There’s nothing good on network TV, nowadays…”

“This is bullshit.” Bucky plowed his fingers through his hair. 

Tony rolled his eyes, and his sigh was long-suffering. “We’re gonna be late to class in about thirty seconds. It’s cinnamon roll day in Home Ec. I don’t wanna miss that.”

Hurt and confusion strained Bucky’s features, darkening his eyes. He couldn’t look at Tony anymore, and his body language closed off, until Tony sighed in resignation. He pushed himself into Bucky’s space, but Bucky refused to look at him. “Bucky… c’mon. Are we really gonna do this? When did you get so dramatic? Hmm?” Bucky fought the urge to lean into his touch when he traced the angle of his jaw, teasing the cleft in his chin. Bucky shivered, but he steeled himself.

“Sorry. Guess my nose just gets a little out of joint when I see the guy I’ve been in love with for three years practically screwing someone else in public.”

“Hey! We weren’t ‘screwing.’ Rhodey’s classier than that. Give me _some_ credit. Sheesh…” Bucky shoved him away.

“How long?” he asked, voice breaking slightly.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“We hooked up in Dusseldorf, but we texted for a month or…two. Six. Well, maybe longer than that… do dick pics count?”

“Fuck! Tony… of _course_ they count!” Bucky hissed, throwing his hands up. “So, you were _cheating_ on me for that long?”

“Not… really. ‘Cheating’ is such a strong word-“

Angry tears stung Bucky’s eyes, and he whirled away to leave, but Tony was faster. He trapped him at the doorway before he could leave, even though the bell rang. “Shit. I’m gonna get detention,” Tony muttered, but he faced Bucky, eyes boring into his, his grip on Bucky’s shoulders firm enough to keep his attention on him. “Look. It’s been… amazing being with you, Buckster.”

“I hate that. _Don’t_ call me that.”

“Bucky. C’mon,” Tony whined. “Things were cooling off between us. I know you were getting a little bored, too-“

“Seriously, Tony?!” Bucky’s stomach twisted, threatening to chuck its contents.

“I like knowing what my options are. Options are _good._ Like, it’d suck going to Pinkberry if all they had was vanilla yogurt and the nasty granola was the only topping-“

“So. I’m granola.” Bucky’s tone was flat. 

“That’s… that’s not what I meant, baby…”

“No. I’m granola. That’s good to know.” Bucky shook off Tony’s grip. “Just so you know… just so _anyone else knows_ , Tony, _I_ broke up with _you._ ”

Tony scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Is that all? Want me to get a broom and the dustpan, Bucks? Sweep up all the little pieces of your heart lying on the floor?” Bucky’s cheeks burned. “C’mon. No one even knew we were a thing.”

“You didn’t want them to,” Bucky shot back. “Must’ve been pretty stuffy in your closet, Tony.” It hit him, then. “So. Rhodey. You’ll broadcast it to the world that you want to be with _him._ ”

“Not the whole world, kiddo,” Tony assured him. He walked past Bucky, patting his cheek as he went. “Just people with basic cable.”

*

Bucky was still fuming when he got out of detention, because of _course_ he was late, too, and his coach bawled him out about it once he reached practice. He’d just finished jerking on his pads and practice gear when Coach Fury came striding in. “Well, well. Mr. Barnes. I’m sure you have an impeccable excuse for showing up late to my practice and letting down your teammates.”

“Detention, sir,” Bucky admitted. “I was late to last period.”

“Ah. Detention. Not feeling creative today with the excuses.”

“No, sir,” he admitted. 

“Good. Now that Flash Thompson, he was feeling creative. Spun me a yarn about looking in on his sick grandmother like he was some overgrown Little Red Riding Hood. I caught him out front with his girlfriend, wasting my team’s time. He’s outside running laps.”

“Okay.”

“Go out there and take laps with him. Ten of ‘em, Barnes.”

“Yes, sir.” Bucky’s mood was black. Fury had turned to leave, but he glanced back at Bucky with interest.

“You look like your dog died.”

“My boyfriend broke up with me,” Bucky muttered.

“Oh.” Fury shrugged. “Look on the bright side, Barnes. He won’t make you late to my practices anymore.” Bucky growled as he jerked the lacing tight on his chest pads, irritated by Fury’s cheerful whistling as the door swished shut after him.

He caught up to Flash as they took their extra laps around the field. “What crawled up your ass?” the tall strawberry blond demanded.

“Give it a rest,” Bucky told him sourly.

“Whatever,” Flash shrugged, as he picked up speed, and Bucky quickened his stride to keep up with him, legs churning, his cleats pounding the turf. Their jogging turned into a hard, consistent sprint, and Bucky savored the air sawing in and out of his chest.

*

“Welcome to Tasty Taco. Home of the Tasty Taco. Can I interest you in trying our new Chicken Festivo Taquitos?” Steve asked with little enthusiasm, trying to force a smile onto his face. The slender older women with drawn-on eyebrows glared up at the menu doubtfully. Her skin seemed to be pulled too tightly over her face, and she reeked of Oscar de la Renta.

“How many fat grams are in those? Have you read the packaging? Are they high in sodium, young man?”

“I’m… not quite certain, ma’am,” he admitted apologetically. “The calories are written on the menu,” he said helpfully, but she puffed out an exasperated breath.

“I’m not as worried about _those._ You’ll understand when you’re my age, sonny. Look at you,” she tsked. “You’re skinny as a rail.”

Because she just had to point that out, he groaned to himself, wishing the floor would swallow him. He’d just mopped it, too, sweeping all the stray, fallen bits of food toward the grease traps set into the slick tile near the grills. His job was _so_ gross… Her muttering as she read the menu descriptions was underscored by the hissing oil from the fryers. Steve spied Clint rolling up outside on his skateboard, clearly, conveniently forgetting his promise to Nat that he wouldn’t eat the crap there. Steve suppressed his smirk. The three people in line behind her were checking their watches and phones and glaring at her back, and at Steve.

“We have a Light Chicken Taco Salad,” Steve said helpfully. 

“Salad?” she squawked. “Are you insinuating I’m fat?!”

“NO! No, of course not! It just might… be lower in… sodium,” Steve suggested desperately. “Look, it’s not… it’s good. I think you’ll like it. It’s gluten-free, too.”

“Gluten-free?” A light went on in her eyes. When in doubt, Steve thought to himself, play the gluten card. 

“It’s a nice option.”

“Can you add extra sour cream?”

“I certainly can!” Steve began punching buttons on the cash register quickly before she could change her mind.

“I want the combo.”

“Not a problem.”

“Add on an order of churritos. And a diet Pepsi.” Steve handed her the medium cup, since the kind of soda was moot.

“One. Diet. Pepsi.” The total flashed in digital red numbers on his monitor. “Six ninety-five.” And because the universe hated him, she fished out a handful of bills from her tri-fold instead of a debit card, making him wait for her to fish out change from the bottom of her purse.

_Fuck. My. Life._ Steve smiled weakly as he gave her the receipt with her order number on it. “That’ll be sixty-one. We’ll call you when it’s ready. Thank you for coming to Tasty Taco.”

“Home of the Tasty Taco!” Clint crowed from behind her, since he’d cut in line. She shot him an annoyed look and cut him a wide berth as she went to fill up her drink at the fountain station. “What’s up, Rogers?”

“Weren’t you supposed to meet Nat?” Steve accused.

“She has tae kwon do,” Clint shrugged. “I wanna Fiesta Bowl.”

“She said no tacos, Clint!”

“It’s not technically a taco,” Clint argued. “Chips, corn, beans and mystery meat isn’t a taco.”

“Want the chipotle ranch?”

“Pfft! Do I!”

“Right. Ranch,” Steve murmured, adding it to Clint’s order.

“And extra cheese.”

“Right. Cheese.”

“And you’re hot little bod when you clock out, sweetheart,” Clint joked.

“Not on your life, Barton,” Steve grumbled. “Asshat,” he mouthed. Clint gave him a shit-eating grin.

“Your loss. Nat’s gain.”

“She won’t kiss you after the Fiesta Bowl,” Steve reminded him, ignoring the sour look the lady behind Clint gave as he badmouthed the food he was about to serve. “Four-fifty.”

“Spot me a little?” Steve sighed and rang him up with his employee discount. He wasn’t planning to eat any of it himself that day, anyway, and his boss let every employee take the discount on one meal per shift, per work day. Steve knew where Clint’s money went, anyway; they’d just played the latest _Call of Duty_ up in his room the other day, with Clint’s weird nineties alternative mix blaring in the background. It was his fault that Steve had Jane’s Addiction’s “Been Caught Stealing” in his head… thanks, Clint.

He gave Clint his number and watched him lope off, earbuds plugged in as he played some weird temple-tomb runner game on his phone. Steve’s crew moved the orders quickly as the rush hour dinner crowd began to drift inside. Seven PM couldn’t come soon enough.

Because his day wouldn’t be complete without some more humiliation, and the universe clearly hated him, Steve looked up from refilling the napkin dispensers at the sound of a familiar baritone.

“Excuse me… would you recommend the Asado Taco Supreme, sir?” Steve looked up and met Bucky Barnes’ smirk. With that _mouth._ His sapphire blue eyes crinkled at him, and Steve felt his cheeks heat up. His dark hair was slightly damp from a shower, and the Under Armour black dri-fit tee… well, it fit him like a glove. Bucky rubbed his nape, ducking his head a little and peering at Steve through his lashes.

_Smug bastard,_ Steve thought. “Welcome to Tasty Taco!” he told him with forced enthusiasm. “And… no,” he admitted in a low voice. “The new guy dropped the meat on the floor an hour ago when he was prepping the station.” Bucky made a face.

“Then what would you recommend?”

“Luigi’s down the street,” Steve muttered, but he tried to look more lively when his manager walked by, giving him a jaundiced, constipated look. “Hey, just get a Fiesta Bowl. Might be your best bet.”

“Make it a large. I’m starving,” Bucky announced.

“Anything else, sir?” 

“Yeah. Your digits.” 

Steve gave him a look of disgust. “Really, Barnes?”

“Hey. You _did_ ask what I wanted,” Bucky pointed out.

“From the menu,” Steve said, gritting his teeth. “That’ll be four ninety-five, sir.”

“A drink would be nice.” Steve clapped the cup down on the counter and rang up another charge with a punch of his finger. Bucky handed over his debit, but when Steve went to take it from him, Bucky wouldn’t let go.

“What time do you get off work, Stevie?”

“Don’t… don’t call me that. I hate it,” he argued. “And what’s it to you? Don’t you have some underclassmen to chase after you?”

Bucky pantomimed a shot to the heart. “You wound me, Mr. Rogers.”

“Go. Now. Here’s your order number, _sir._ ”

“Aren’t fast food restaurants supposed to offer friendly service with a smile?” Bucky teased as he took his number and tucked his debit back into his wallet. He tucked it into his hip pocket as he turned away from Steve, and of _course_ that drew all of his attention to Bucky’s ass. It rippled as he walked away.

Damn it.


	3. Rebounds and Fouls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky tries to impress Steve, with varying levels of success. The rest of the cool kids’ table decides to play a game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No clue what I’m even doing here. This is basically the Can’t Hardly Wait/10 Things/Some Kind of Wonderful/Pretty in Pink/She’s All That AU that no one in their right mind would ask for. With Stucky. And let’s face it, Skinny!Steve rocks the fast food apron and cap. He just does.

Steve walked his bike into Janet and Henry’s garage, shivering at the slight chill from the autumn breeze that crept under the neckline of his hoodie. His apron was wadded up and crammed into the pocket, the loops of its strings hanging out slightly as he reached into his hip pocket for his housekeys. Steve smelled the remnants of pot roast from the front porch as he let himself inside. Steve unplugged his earbud from his good ear and promptly wished he hadn’t.

“Steve, I can’t keep bailing you out with rides,” Henry informed him before he could even set down his backpack and take off his shoes. “I was ten minutes late to my meeting this morning. Traffic is horrendous first thing in the morning, with all of the parents and commuters-“

“I know,” Steve cut in as he hung his work cap on the coat hook by the size adjuster band.

“No. You _don’t_ know,” Henry argued, plowing his hand through his thick, well-cut blond hair. His normally impeccably ironed dress shirt was untucked from his slacks and the sleeves were rolled above his elbows, making him look like a man who finally had the chance to unwind. “Put your backpack away, please.”

“Okay,” Steve offered. He tucked his shoes neatly by the edge of the welcome mat and rushed toward his room, while Henry’s voice followed him up the stairs. Because Henry was following him up the stairs.

“We need to talk about some things,” Henry mentioned.

“I know,” Steve repeated, wanting to do anything _but_.

“Janet and I can only do so much for you and go so far out of our way,” Henry went on. He leaned against Steve’s doorframe, arms folded while Steve flicked on his desk lamp and shucked his hoodie, chucking his apron into the clothes hamper. 

“I know,” Steve admitted. “I didn’t mean for you to have to go out of your way, Henry. Or Janet. I should’ve packed my uniform. I’m sorry.” Henry’s sigh was heavy, and Steve gave him a smile that he hoped was conciliatory.

It didn’t help.

“We need to start thinking about your plan for this summer.”

Steve’s blood ran cold.

“I know that you haven’t really gotten things nailed down yet, bud. Your senior year’s pretty important, but you need to figure out what direction to go after you graduate.”

“What direction?” Steve asked flatly. “Because… because you’re kicking me out.”

The air between them felt thick, stifling. Steve’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his slender throat, and his eyes flitted down to the floor. He sat down on his bed, and Henry let himself the rest of the way inside, sitting at Steve’s desk.

“Not really. Just… you need a plan.”

“I know you’re not really my parents,” Steve said carefully. “But… I just… I’m working. I can contribute if I have to, Henry-“

“That’s big of you that you want to try, Steve. I admire you for that. But it’s not even about that.”

“So… What’s it about?” Steve’s eyes were burning and his mouth tasted dry. He unclipped his iPod from his waistband and rolled up the earbud wire, setting it on the bed beside him.

“You’ll be an adult this summer. You won’t be in the system, anymore. You won’t have to follow anyone’s rules but your own.”

And Henry and Janet wouldn’t get the state’s check, but Steve wisely held his tongue.

“Hope adores you. She thinks of you like a brother.”

“Sure.”

“She does, Steve.” Henry sighed again and rubbed his nape. “We want to help you. If it’s applying for financial aid, Steve, or jobhunting for a few weeks-“

“That’s great. You don’t have to bother,” Steve insisted. “I can make it on my own, Henry.” 

“Steve, you won’t have to, that’s not what I mean-“

“It kind of _is._ ” Steve rushed out of the room with a terse “I’m gonna take a shower” thrown over his shoulder. He made it into the bathroom before the panic attack hit him. Steve’s chest felt like a steel band snapped itself around it and was squeezing the air from his lungs. He reached into the tub and slapped on the water, then turned it as hot as it would go. He drew in long, gulping breaths, trying to suck some steam; the pounding of water against the porcelain and tile masked his ragged breathing.

_They want me gone. They don’t want me anymore._ He replayed Henry’s words. _You won’t be in the system, anymore._ He wouldn’t have a safety net, or anyone assuring them that they would provide him a home.

Henry knocked on the door. “Steve. Steve, are things fine in there?”

Sure, they were. “Uh-huh,” Steve croaked as he whipped off the rest of his clothing. He glimpsed his face in the mirror and noticed his eyes were already red-rimmed. He kicked off his black jeans and briefs, toed off his socks, and stepped under the spray, hissing when it was too hot. He dodged the drops pelting his chilled skin until he could turn down the dial.

“We’ll talk after dinner,” Henry promised. “Janet saved you a plate.”

“Thanks,” Steve called back hollowly. He leaned back against the tile and let out a shaky breath, right before the tears came.

*

The next week wasn’t Steve’s favorite, either. His boss snapped at him every ten minutes for daydreaming (“That floor won’t mop itself, Mr. Rogers”), and he couldn’t get his mind off of Henry’s announcement that he really wasn’t a member of the family. He was running out of white paint again and the canvas he was working on for his juried art entry wasn’t panning out. It was all he could do not to roll gesso over the whole thing, or just toss the whole canvas out the window.

No one was cutting him any slack, least of all the jocks.

That included Bucky Barnes. Steve was getting sick of his smug face… not _that_ sick of it, just… it was so hard to keep his cool whenever he ran into him, caught so much of a glance from those laughing eyes. Bucky caught him at the water fountain again, hovering over him again as he was taking a drink. Steve straightened up after lapping up the last couple of sips more slowly, just because he could. “All yours, your Highness,” he muttered. Was it Steve’s imagination, or did Bucky’s eyes flit down for a second? “What?”

“Uh. Nothing.”

Steve stalked off, piqued and blushing as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. 

*

God help Bucky for his inability to stop staring at Steve’s mouth. It was _killing_ him. Rosy and inviting, wet and gleaming. And Steve Rogers couldn’t stand him. Great. “Great,” he murmured aloud as he took a drink he didn’t need from the fountain and headed for class. He was jarred from his thoughts by a rough shoulder check. 

“Hey, Barnes.”

“What’s goin’ on, Brock?”

“It’s your turn to pick up lunch,” his friend casually informed him. It wasn’t. Brock was just a cheap bastard about his own gas tank.

“You buying?” Bucky prodded.

“Pfffft… mine, maybe.” But he dug into his pocket, fishing out his thick black wallet. “Here. Little Caesar’s. Get me the Hawaiian, and bring me back my change.”

“You owe me from last week,” Bucky argued. 

“I know. You’re awesome. We’re bros,” Brock reminded him. “You know I’m good for it.” Flash came up from behind him and jostled him, getting him in a headlock, and Bucky deflected his attempt at mussing his hair.

“Quit it!”

“You’re bringing us deep dish this time, right?” Flash looked hopeful as he tucked a ten-spot into Bucky’s shirt pocket.

“What am I, your lackey?”

“Nope. Delivery boy?” Flash glanced at Brock to confirm this, and the olive-skinned brunette nodded, shrugging. “Delivery boy. ‘Lackey’ sounds kinda harsh…”

“Suck my dick,” Bucky told him, but he took Flash’s money, too, and tucked it into his wallet. 

“Eddie’s chipping in, too.” 

“Seriously?!” Now Bucky was annoyed. Bringing back that much food guaranteed his car would smell like cheap pizza for at least a week. He’d just had it detailed…

“Geez, look at that guy,” Brock muttered, elbowing Bucky. “He’s hopeless.” Bucky’s eyes followed where Brock was pointing to Steve Rogers, already down the hall, minding his own business when a tall, sandy-haired junior reached down the back of his shirt collar and dropped a crumpled up ball of paper. Steve instinctively spun to see who did it, distracted by the annoying scratch of paper against his back, and he tripped over his own feet, backpack sliding off his shoulder. He kept reaching around himself, slapping at the paper before it occurred to him to untuck the back of his shirt. There was that Rogers blush again, and he was surrounded by a rush of chuckles and pointing fingers.

Sometimes, Bucky mused to himself, people sucked. 

“Bet he bumps into the next person who walks around that corner,” Flash prompted. Steve freed the wad of paper from his shirt and automatically headed toward the trash can beside the bank of lockers, still distracted and fuming. He turned to head back in the direction he was heading in the first place and collided with a large girl paying more attention to the screen of her pink smartphone. She looked pissed, and Bucky saw him mouthing “sorry” as he rushed off. Brock and Flash crowed with laughter, high-fiving each other, waiting for Bucky to do the same.

Bucky waved them off, leaving them hanging.

*

“So they’re kicking you out?” Bruce bit into the ham sandwich he’d packed, watching Steve spear his straw into his carton of milk. “That sucks, man.”

“I thought we were okay. Things weren’t perfect, but I thought they didn’t mind me there,” Steve said, sighing. “Guess I was wrong…”

“Janet seems to like you a lot,” Natasha pointed out. “It’s not the end of the world, Rogers.”

“Not yet…”

“Bullshit. You’ll be fine. You can always stay with one of us over the summer if you have to.” She leaned into Clint and stole one of his Cheez-Its. He dutifully kissed her cheek and fed her another one.

“She’s right,” Clint told him. “Something’s gonna pan out.”

“Nothing ever pans out,” Steve grumbled. “Why should this?”

“You’re still in the system,” Bruce reminded him. “Just ask for another placement.”

“I age out this summer. Independence Day,” Steve quipped sourly. Because what else did his July Fourth birthday come in handy for but bad puns?

“Worse comes to worse, we could get a place,” Bruce offered. Sincerity shone in his eyes, and Steve knew he meant it.

 

If _anyone_ was anxious to move out of his parents’ home, it was Bruce Banner. His father’s temper and mean streak were legend on the playground since they were in kindergarten. Brian Banner taught physics at the local community college, and he was charming around adults, but he had no patience for his own son. Steve had his own troubles, letting himself be a little late for PE every day so he could get changed when the locker room was empty. That was how he found Bruce, nearly as short as him, not quite as slightly built, probing at a bruise across his ribcage gingerly before he noticed Steve staring. He let the hem of his white gym shirt drop and hugged himself, flushing.

“Please don’t look at it,” he said quietly. “And don’t say anything.”

“We’re both already late, Steve said simply. “Lock up your phone. It’s nice.” Bruce tucked it into his duffle and shoved it inside his locker, spinning his combination to clear it. They maintained a friendship characterized by sharing their histories in bits and pieces when it wasn’t too painful, meeting frequently at the arcade, movie theater or library, since neither of them felt comfortable bringing friends home that often. The one time Steve met Bruce’s parents, his mother asked him shyly if he wanted anything to drink, and her smile was very tight, the air between them uncomfortable. Brian’s eyes were hard, his grip bruising when he shook his hand. Bruce had rushed him upstairs to his room, and he escorted him out quickly once his dad had left to go teach an evening lecture. They’d spent the whole afternoon studying in Bruce’s impeccably neat room. There were no posters on his wall, since his dad didn’t allow them. The calendar on Bruce’s bulletin board shared space with a couple of science fair blue ribbons and flanked the Honor Society induction plaque. Four spelling bee trophies were the only items cluttering his desk aside from his laptop and printer.

On the one hand, Steve was in a “temporary” situation and he missed his parents. On the other hand, he didn’t have _Bruce’s_ parents.

 

Steve mulled his situation as he bit into the tasteless Salisbury steak. “I need a better job. I’m gonna apply for financial aid.”

“If Henry claims you as a dependent this year, that’s gonna be hard,” Natasha pointed out.

“Henry should be the one doing the application, then,” Clint muttered. “You can still apply for scholarships, dude.”

“There’s some good ones out there.” Natasha was eligible for a few of them based on her GPA and for playing softball and field hockey. She had a wicked curve ball. 

“I already applied for three,” Bruce added as he shined his glasses using his sleeve. He elbowed Steve. “Get cracking. The sooner you get your money straightened out, the sooner you can kick rocks.”

“I’ve got the grades,” Steve mused. “But nothing else makes me stand out.”

“Bullshit,” Nat told him, waving a cracker at him for emphasis as she began to lecture. “You’ve got talent, Rogers. You just need to get up off your skinny ass and put it out there. Go to that worthless guidance counseling office and look up some fine arts scholarships. They’re for people like you.”

“Your whole portfolio’s out on Instagram, anyway, practically,” Clint chipped in. “Just show an admissions office that, when you apply to all those fancy art schools.” He huffed. “I can’t draw like you. I _wish_ I could draw like you. Go. Apply for stuff. Go forth and do artsy things. Just don’t… don’t do that little thing that you do.”

“What ‘thing?’ I don’t do a ‘thing’,” Steve argued, blond brows drawing together.

“Exactly!” Nat pounced. “You _don’t._ That’s the thing you do. When you don’t do anything but whine about why you can’t do anything.”

“Yup. That thing. That’s the thing,” Clint told him, nodding.

It was on the tip of Steve’s tongue to tell his friends, well-meaning though they were, that even if he came up with tuition for school, he’d still have to find a place to live, but he didn’t want Nat’s lecture to reach his least favorite point, where she started squinting at him, sighing, and calling him a doofus. Steve took an unenthusiastic bite of his Salisbury steak, wishing he hadn’t waited so long to eat it. The gravy was beginning to congeal, blobs of grease rising to the surface and beginning to solidify as it cooled.

Nat sighed.

Steve braced himself.

“When we go to our ten-year reunion, you’re not gonna still be working at Tasty Taco.”

“I’ll have moved on,” Steve agreed dryly. “Nifty Noodle House is hiring…”

“Don’t be such a doofus,” Nat scolded.

“Will they still give you an employee discount that you can share with your closest friends?” Clint piped up. Nat poked him, narrowing her eyes. Steve smirked, glad he wasn’t the one on the end of the squint this time.

 

Bucky hefted the stack of pizza boxes in the crook of his arm and shoved his way through the swinging doors to the cafeteria, and when he reached his table, his friends rushed him like a pack of jackals.

“There’s your Hawaiian,” Bucky told Brock, and he reached out to slug him when he tried to run off with Bucky’s order of breadsticks and marinara. 

“I’m a growing boy!” Brock claimed innocently. But Bucky snatched his bag of breadsticks from him and shoved the pizza box across the table at him. Brock still managed to steal half of his marinara before Bucky even sat down. The smell was making his mouth water, such an improvement over anything from the hot lunch line. Eddie and Flash were inhaling their pizzas, change already pocketed and earbuds plugged in, thumbing through Facebook feeds and Snapchats.

Bucky had just popped open his can of cherry Pepsi when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned instinctively toward it, found no one there, then looked up to find Tony – because of _course_ it was _Tony_ \- swiping one of his breadsticks on his opposite side.

“You brought me lunch! You shouldn’t have, darling,” Tony drawled as he bit into it. Bucky fumed.

“Might be nice if you could’ve chipped in,” he said casually.

“I left my wallet in my other pants,” Tony shrugged as he munched, then even had the nerve to double-dip the stick in Bucky’s sauce. Bucky felt his face heating up, hating Tony’s smug look. He hated it even more when his friends made room for him to sit down. “So, what’s new, Buckeroo?”

“When are you having another kickback, Stark?” Eddie cut in before Bucky could cut him down, both for the nickname and for that awkward, itchy feeling creeping over his flesh at having his ex so close to him, acting like his shit didn’t stink. 

“When my dad goes out of town on another ‘business trip,’” Tony told him, making quotes around it with his fingers. “Jarvis never did get that stain out of the carpet, just so you know.” He eyed Rumlow when he said that, quirking his brows. Brock choked on his bite of pizza; Eddie chortled at him and whacked him on the back.

“That’s the first thing you’re planning to do now that you’re stateside again? Throw another kickback?” Bucky sounded less than impressed.

“I missed everybody. Europe’s big and lonely, Buck.” He glanced past all of them and smiled when he found who he was searching for. “And I wanna introduce Rhodey to everybody a little more formally.”

“Rhodey?”

“There he is!” Tony tucked his finger and thumb into the corners of his mouth and whistled, then waved over a striking young man with a deep mocha complexion and intelligent eyes from where he was entertaining a flock of underclassmen girls. “Don’t be shy!” Tony called out encouragingly as he approached. Bucky bit back the protest from leaping off his tongue at the sight of the guy to stole his boyfriend – “Dusseldorf,” as he’d begun thinking of him, lately. He was shorter than Bucky, with a lean, firm build and confident swagger when he walked, and Tony’s dark eyes lit up when he saw him.

“Hey, trouble maker,” Rhodey drawled easily as Tony stood to greet him, and Bucky huffed. What was he gonna go, kiss him? Not _even,_ not when Tony always insisted that they kept what was between them hush-

Rhodey playfully pinched Tony’s cheek, and Tony responded in kind, looping his arm around his waist and kissing him like he meant it. Like he had in _Dusseldorf._

 

-hush.

Eddie, Brock and Flash watched in shocked surprise; Brock’s pizza slice lingered halfway to his mouth, and half the toppings slid off the end. “Dude…”

“Uh,” Eddie murmured.

“So… am I the only one seeing this?” Flash inquired, unsure and dry-mouthed.

“What? None of you have basic cable? This is old news,” Bucky informed them. He tore off another bite of breadstick and chewed it savagely. 

“When was he gonna tell us he was-“ Brock pointed at the two of them as they continued to kiss and whisper to each other with low, teasing snickers.

“He just did,” Bucky pointed out, cutting them off. Because of _course_ Tony could uncloset himself for this “Rhodey” after a few months, but not for Bucky after three years. Bucky lost his appetite. He balled up the rest of his bag of breadsticks and shoved it into the plastic one with the rest of the napkins and trash.

“What? I wasn’t done,” Tony whined as Bucky got up to throw it away.

“You didn’t chip in,” Bucky reminded him again.

“Someone’s not feeling very charitable today,” Tony mused. His hand rested over Rhodey’s lower back possessively. Proudly. 

“I’m gonna bail. I need something out of my locker,” Bucky informed them as he reached for his Jansport pack. 

“Or very social,” Rhodey mentioned. “Don’t leave on my account, Buckster.”

“Don’t call me that.” Bucky’s tone was flat. “Please. Just… don’t.” He wasn’t crazy about the nickname when Tony used it, but he tolerated it, because it was _Tony_. Oh, the things he put up with for Tony… 

Bucky threw the bag of bread into the trashcan and told himself that he didn’t feel his friends’ eyes on his back, following his retreat from the cafeteria. He knew he would look like a pussy if he hurried out, and he schooled his legs to saunter instead of sprint out of there. He was so caught up in the chafing, burning prickles rushing over him that he didn’t notice Steve Rogers, master of In the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time, until he was practically on top of him. They collided painfully, and Steve’s tray went tumbling everwhere, utensils and empty dishes scattering across the floor.

“Shit!” he hissed, cheeks automatically flaming scarlet. He dared a quick glance at Bucky, embarrassment mingling with fury. “Could ya watch where you’re going for a half a second, Barnes?”

“Sorry,” Bucky managed. 

“I’m not _that_ invisible,” Steve accused as he set down his pack and began to retrieve the tray and dishes. Bucky helped him, actually taking the tray from his hands and collecting the rest of the trash. 

“No one said you were. I got it. Here. Gimme.” Bucky relieved him of the rest of it and disposed of it, returning the tray to the dirty tub by the window. “You’re _welcome_ , by the way,” he added, just to give Steve a hard time. 

Steve wanted to smack him for that smirk, but he was still blushing. He straightened his glasses and picked up Bucky’s backpack first, thrusting it at him roughly, before he bothered to pick up his own. “Sure. My hero. What would I ever do without you, James Barnes?”

“If you wanna thank me that badly, stick with Bucky. Please.” Steve moved to brush past him. He glared up at him when Bucky made no effort to move. He went to move around him, and Bucky intentionally blocked him this time. 

“Oh, look, let me… sorry. I just can’t stay out of your way,” Bucky apologized slyly, expression deadpan but eyes twinkling. “Here, just… I’ll go this way.” He feinted again and Steve wasn’t any closer to getting past him. His nostrils flared and a little divot appeared between his sandy brows.

_He’s cute when he’s mad._

“Some time today, Buck,” Steve huffed before he finally gave Bucky a shove and stalked off.

“That wasn’t very nice, Steve!” Bucky called after him. He threw his arms out helplessly, making people stare. “Did I deserve that kind of hostility?” he asked a random passerby. She shrugged. He shrugged back. Then he grinned as Steve reached back and flipped him the bird without glancing his way. 

Yes, Steve Rogers was _very_ cute when he was annoyed.

*

Natasha ambushed Steve at his locker before his last period. “Hey. Wanna go to Has Beans for open mike? I’m sharing today. You can sit with Clint and clap for me when it’s my turn.”

“That’s fine. I don’t have to go in today. Fury’s training the new guy on the register.”

“Nice.” Nat grinned. “When are you gonna share some of your own stuff?”

“Hmmm. What day is it today?”

“Tuesday.”

“Okay. So, probably…” he paused. “Never.” She swatted his arm.

“Why not? You have a way with words. Do open mike. Show off a little for a change.”

“It’d be too weird,” Steve insisted. His cheeks were pinkening already just imagining getting up in front of the crowded café on their tiny little stage. 

“No, it wouldn’t. You might actually _like_ it. Quit being so bashful and put your talent out there. Speaking of which, how is your painting going? Getting ready for that show?”

“It’s not going anywhere,” he grumbled. “My canvas hates me…”

“Liar. Bet it’s fantastic,” she insisted. She paused a moment and glanced past Steve, then cupped her hand around her mouth. “Hey, Banner! BANNER!” Steve turned just in time to watch Bruce accidentally spray himself in the nose at the water fountain when her shout surprised him. He choked, and Steve snickered a little as Bruce mouthed “shit” and wiped his mouth and chin on his sleeve. “You’re coming to poetry today, right?”

“With bells on,” he called back awkwardly before he hurried away, but he gave her one of his rare smiles. Bruce had a grudging, none-too-subtle crush on Nat, even though she was already taken. Nat chuckled.

“See? Bruce is going. You three can be my entourage.”

“We already are,” Steve reminded her. “I’m gonna have to lock up my bike at the parking structure, so it’ll take me a while to get there.” The parking tower downtown was several blocks from the coffeehouse.

“That’s fine.” She looked away from him again at the sound of chortling and jeers and the familiar sound of Bruce shouting back in annoyance. “Hold on a sec…” She held up her hand and narrowed her eyes.

“That’s not funny… HEY! GIVE THOSE BACK!”

“Right. Later, Rogers? Has Beans?” Nat prompted as she rushed to Bruce’s aid, because of course that was his voice, full of frustration and building rage.

“Yup.” But Steve slammed his locker and followed her as she strode down the hall toward the scuffle, and Steve didn’t pity whoever was dumb enough to mess with a friend of Natasha Romanoff’s. Or a friend of _his_ , for that matter. But there was Brock – why was he surprised – holding Bruce’s glasses over his head and playing keep away with them.

They were expensive, and Bruce’s dad would kick his ass if he had to replace them _again_ because their school’s resident assholes decided it was Bruce’s turn to get picked on. Brock shoved his glasses at Eddie, who tried them on and made goofy faces.

“That ain’t your look, bro,” Brock told him sadly. “Better get rid of em…”

“HEY!” Steve cried out, getting there before Nat. “Give those back!”

“Gonna tell me to pick on someone my own size, sweetheart?” Brock jeered. “Thing is, you’re not my size, but I’m fine with picking on you next-“

“Quit it,” Bucky hissed. He shoved himself between Brock and Steve before he could even touch Steve, pushing out his chest and widening his stance. “Give ‘em back,” he growled at Eddie, who was playfully threatening to break the stems off.

“These things are kinda flimsy, Banner. Just like you. You should get a new pair… c’mon, Barnes, I’m only messing with him! C’MON!” Bucky shoved him roughly into the lockers and wrested the glasses from him, glaring into his grinning face and reading the confusion in Eddie’s eyes. He handed them to Bruce, not risking tossing them at him in case Brock wanted to continue his game of keep-away.

“Grow up,” Bucky grumbled. “That made you feel good?” he added. “What are you, now? Five?”

“Whatever,” Eddie huffed, shoving Bucky as he moved past. Bruce kept a tight grip on his glasses, clenching them in his fist. Eddie shoulder-checked the short brunet as he went past. Nat took umbrage, savagely tripping him and smirking when he stumbled. “HEY!”

“You don’t put your hands on my friends,” she hissed, poking him hard in the chest. “I know where you live, Eddie Brock.” 

That actually made him pale. “I was just messing with him,” he murmured.

“Sure, you were,” she warned. “I know how to mess around, too, asshole.” It wasn’t a hollow threat.

“Yeah. Let’s… let’s just go,” Steve suggested as he tugged her away by the arm toward their last period.

“Right behind you,” Bruce chimed in, since there was safety in numbers, the vice principal was sizing them up as he rounded the corner, and Bruce learned not to abuse a good thing, namely Nat sticking up for him again.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky called after them again.

“Thanks!” Bruce tossed over his shoulder. At least he didn’t get flipped off this time…

 

Bucky felt himself shoved roughly back against the locker once the vice principal walked past. Brock and Eddie both stood glaring at him, miffed. 

“What’s your damage, Barnes?”

“What’s yours?” he argued back, snatching his upper arm out of Brock’s grasp. “Just leave him alone. He wasn’t doing anything to you.”

“He offended my eyes. And who cares? It’s _Banner._ Why did you stand up for that puny loser?”

“Maybe he has a hard-on for him,” Rumlow suggested, smirking. “Is that it? You wanna get into Banner’s pants, Bucky?”

“He’s not my type,” Bucky shrugged as he walked away. That only made his friends – he could only use the term loosely, lately – heckle him even more.

“Maybe he _is_ , the way you’re running to his rescue, like Prince Charming,” Eddie scoffed. “Bet you like ‘em more delicate, anyway. Like little Steve Rogers-“

“Back off, Eddie!” He turned and stood his ground, his eyes cold, flinty chips.

They’d struck a nerve. Steve’s name didn’t belong in their filthy mouths.

“What?” Brock asked in a drawl, “You playing for Stark’s team now, too?”

Eddie’s smirk widened. “Look at him. He’s got a hard-on for Rogers.”

Bucky’s cheeks burned and he felt his heart hammering, hearing rushing sounds in his ears. The temptation to lie nagged at him. It would be so easy.

But it wouldn’t be Bucky.

“No one’s got time for your shit,” Bucky growled. “Go find some babies to steal candy from, asshole. Both of you.” He included Brock in his dressing down.

“Sure looked like you were taking it personal when Tony’s boy toy showed up,” Brock told him. 

“Shut up.”

“Looked a little jealous.”

“So did you,” Bucky accused. Brock scoffed.

“Not _even._ I’m not into guys.”

“Whatsamatter, Bucky? Did Stark _dump you_? Did he- hey, where’re you going?”

He had to walk – rush – away before he did something rash.

“Aw, C’MON, BARNES! IT’S NOT SO BAD! THERE’S OTHER FISH IN THE SEA!” 

 

*

And it shouldn’t have shocked Bucky when the rumors reached him after last bell. Conversations paused as he waded through the crowd to his homeroom, and he felt their stares.

“Hey, Bucky, it’s not the end of the world,” Jean piped up from the bank of lockers. “Lots of people get dumped!”

“Oh, God, how is this my _life?_ ” Bucky groaned under his breath. His letterman jacket chafed him, felt too hot and stifling. 

“Tony _is_ pretty hot, though,” mused Anna Marie. Jubilee nodded beside them, cracking her gum.

Not. Helping.

“Bucky! My brother says he wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers!” he heard someone call after him. “Want me to give you his number?”

“No,” he barked as he rushed off.

His friends – were they? – lounged indolently by Bucky’s locker, grinning at him.

“C’mon,” Brock cajoled. “Don’t be pissed at us, dude. Now you don’t have to hide it, anymore.”

“There wasn’t anything to hide. I just didn’t _mention_ it.”

“You and Stark,” Eddie muttered. “Damn. That’s harsh, man.”

That almost sounded like empathy, but Bucky knew better.

“How long were you and Stark doing the do?” Brock prodded as they headed into their homeroom.

“Since freshman year,” Bucky told them. Brock and Eddie shared knowing glances. “What?” Bucky demanded, annoyed now.

“Guess you’re out one prom date,” Eddie mentioned.

“Cut it out!”

“No one’ll think you’re a loser if you go stag,” Brock said, feigning sympathy.

“The _other_ losers won’t,” Eddie amended. Bucky shoved him roughly.

“ _Thanks._ ”

They waited restlessly in their desks for the teacher to take a final head count, suffering through the last announcements. He saw Flash flicking a paper clip at Parker, hitting him in the neck. He leered at him menacingly when the brunette jerked around in his seat to glare at him.

“What? What’re you starin’ at, Parker?” Flash flexed at him demonstratively. “Think I’m hot?” 

“Bucky probably does,” Brock teased.

“Get bent,” Bucky muttered. Peter eyed him with silent sympathy and went back to his homework, madly scribbling an equation in his chemistry notebook before they were dismissed.

They heard the loud buzz of feedback in the school intercoms, wincing at the metallic sounding whine before Sam Wilson’s voice assailed them with the announcements.

“Field hockey practice has been cancelled today, ladies, so get out there, hit the mall, hit the beaches, and hang up those sticks! That means you get the field to yourselves, boys’ lacrosse team. Tryouts are still open for the drama club production of Fiddler on the Roof! And rumor has it a familiar senior is single again! Don’t worry, Barnes, one doesn’t have to be the loneliest number!”

“Shit,” Bucky hissed, and he sank down into his seat, blushing furiously. “THANKS, SAM!” he yelled at the intercom futilely while his classmates chuckled around him, shooting him knowing looks.

“And Bucky, just so you know,” Sam continued, “I’ve got a cousin in Queens who might be just your type. Dresses sharp, listens to way too much house music, and he’s a Virgo. Hit me up, and I’ll hook you up, bruh!”

Bucky pretended to be thoroughly engrossed in his notebook. His friends were jostling him and hooting like idiots. 

“How is this my life?” he groaned.

*

 

Bucky longed for a breather from his friends, legs carrying him through the after school crush of people in the corridor. He beelined for his car and fumbled for his keys, trying to ignore random catcalls from the students leaning out from car and bus windows to tease him. _There are benefits to staying in the closet,_ he thought bitterly. Then again, he realized, they might just be giving him shit for being _dumped_ , not necessarily for being gay…

His musings were interrupted by a hesitant tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw Peter Parker staring at him nervously, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

“Uh, hey. Bucky. How’s it going?”

“Hey.”

“I was, uh. Sorry. About, back there. Those guys are idiots. I mean… I know they’re your friends, and all-“

“-but they’re idiots,” Bucky agreed. “But yeah,” he sighed, “they _are_ my friends.”

“Um, so, got any plans?”

Bucky scowled. “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

“No reason. Just, I thought, maybe you’d wanna hang out with me and _my_ friends.”

Bucky huffed. “Where? Chess club? Science Club?”

“Nope,” Peter said smugly. “Has Beans.”

“The café?” Bucky wrinkled his nose. “Don’t the artsy types go there?” Half the clientele reeked of patchouli and pot, sported dreadlocks and Birkenstocks, and ate more quinoa than human beings should be allowed to consume. One of Bucky’s girlfriends – before Tony – dragged him there for an iced latte and an afternoon concert by a little folk band calling itself Cats Laughing. Their music sounded the way that a trunk full of clothes packed in the attic with mothballs smelled. Bucky conveniently lost her number after that.

“Not _just_ the artsy types,” Peter argued. 

“Why would I want to go there today?” Bucky prodded.

“Poetry reading,” Peter mumbled, realizing he was feeding Bucky’s side of the argument. 

“Poetry? No thanks.” Bucky pictured pale-faced goths in black leather and spikes whining about “the establishment.” The “establishment” hadn’t treated Bucky badly so far. He unlocked his car and climbed inside, breathing in the scent of the Febreze plug-in and the still new-smelling leather.

“Bucky? I’m, I’m sorry. That you got dumped. And that people are giving you a hard time,” Peter admitted. “It happens to some of us. Maybe not… usually… to guys like _you_.”

“Guys like me? What do you mean by that?” Bucky squinted up at him through his window as he started the ignition.

“I dunno. Jocky. Popular. I guess, the kinda guy who seems to think the sun shines out of his ass,” Peter confessed, shrugging.

“WHAT!? I do NOT think the sun shines out of my ass!” Bucky shot back, looking like he was about to take umbrage. Peter held up his hands, but he was smirking. Bucky snickered, shaking his head. “Jerk.”

“I’m just saying. The ‘gay’ thing. I don’t… I don’t care about it. Neither do my friends. And hey,” he pointed out, “most of us are pretty single, too.”

“You’re not my type, Parker,” Bucky deadpanned as he backed out of the space.

“You’re not my type, either, Barnes!” Peter yelled after him. “And that’s not what I meant!”

“Thanks for the offer, but no thanks!” Bucky called back, waving out the window. He got caught in the tide of cars competing to leave the student parking lot, and through his rearview mirror, he saw Peter heading for his moped. Parker wasn’t a bad guy, all things considered. To his credit, he wasn’t even bad looking, but no. He _wasn’t_ Bucky’s type. Peter was smart, and snarky, but definitely straight. 

Bucky had a thing for hotheaded, mouthy blonds with enormous chips on their shoulders.

Bucky waited his turn for the faculty attendant in the orange safety vest to wave him out with his little paddle. Just as he pulled forward, though, Brock and Eddie darted out in front of him and pretended to bounce off the front of his hood like he’d hit them. “SHIT!” Bucky yelped. He wound his window down and bellowed “What the fuck’s wrong with you??!” The attendant scowled at him, and Bucky backed up a few inches to let the next person out, then pulled out of the lot and drove down to the end of the block slowly, to give his friends the chance to catch up to him. Even though they didn’t deserve it. Jerks…

“Somebody’s distracted,” Brock teased. 

“You suck,” Bucky told him.

“Where you headed?”

“Nowhere. I’m single, remember?” Bucky said blandly. “I don’t exactly have places to be and a person to see.”

“Awwwww,” Eddie cooed, pretending to wipe away a tear with his knuckle. “He had his widdle heart bwoken.”

“Shut up,” Bucky told him, giving him his patented squint.

“Guess that means you don’t have a date to the prom, then, either.” 

“So?” Bucky hadn’t thought that far, and he realized glumly that was just one more fly in the ointment. His day sucked. He didn’t correct his friends that Tony probably wouldn’t have shown up with him, anyway, if their past history told him anything. 

“Tough break.”

“I can find another date,” Bucky said. 

“Yeah, good luck!” Brock huffed.

“What?” Bucky countered. “It’s not hard.”

“I dunno, man,” Eddie mused. “You got dumped by _Stark_. He’s a hard act to follow.”

“I can find a better prom date than Tony. Why are you so interested in who I take to the prom, anyway? Don’t you two have _lives?_ ” A car behind him honked, wanting to get into his lane to turn. Bucky slowly let his foot off the brake, but his friends ran to keep up with him.

“Bet you can’t,” Brock panted. “You’re going stag, Barnes!”

“Fuck off,” he told them just as the light turned green. He accelerated, tearing down the road. It felt good to feel the engine humming around him, and Bucky always enjoyed the envious stares when he drove past in the red ‘Vette. His parents gave it to him when he made varsity and the Honor Society, because _no,_ he wasn’t a _dumb jock,_ thank you very much.

Bucky headed downtown, not realizing until he was three blocks down from the parking garage that he was actually headed to Has Beans. He hadn’t meant to take Parker’s suggestion. Yet Brock and Eddie’s little show rankled with him. Chafed him. Why did he hang out with them, again? He searched for an answer to that question while he roamed up each floor of the garage, looking for a space. He managed to find one on the fifth level and he fed the meter generously, still wondering what he was doing, why his feet led him to the elevator and down to the main street. He could be home, deleting all of the pictures of him and Tony from his hard drive and phone and unfriending him on Facebook. There was also a half gallon of cookies and cream in the freezer calling his name, and he had a date with the couch and a marathon of _Teen Wolf_ episodes that he had _so much time for, now_. 

The café hadn’t changed since the last time his ex-girlfriend brought him there. Ferns hung from macramé plant holders around the doorway and front windows. Unframed, matted watercolor paintings were displayed along the brick wall, most of them for sale. It still smelled weird, with the aroma of Arabica beans and pastry mingling with the whiff of clove cigarettes, and you guessed it, pot that wafted up to his nostrils as he passed table four. Bucky nodded and smiled politely to a couple of junior high schoolers who were grinning at him, braces gleaming, hair streaked in primary colors and rocking eighties-style crimps. They shared a raspberry-oatmeal bar and sipped on six-dollar lattes while Bucky scanned the menu. Vegan. Gluten-free. Sugar-free. Organic. Pesticide-free. Cruelty-free. Nut-free. Soy-free. Dairy-free. Fat-free. The café offered more self-denial than Bucky was in the mood for. He contemplated heading down to Pinkberry down the street instead, but-

“BUCKY! Over here!”

-he’d been caught. 

Bucky turned and waved reluctantly at Peter, whose face lit up. “Hey, you came! C’mon, you made it just in time to catch Nat. She’s been practicing this for weeks.”

“Practicing what?” Peter tugged him by the arm to the room in the back of the café, where the tiny stage was set up. There was a young man playing a random medley of jazz standards on the battered piano. Bucky wasn’t fond of jazz, but to his credit, he was pretty good.

“Her poetry jam entry. Guys, look who came!” Peter boasted. Bucky recognized Clint and Bruce, and the latter glanced up from his mocha and smiled shyly, waving.

“You here for Natasha?” Bruce asked him.

“I guess I am, now,” Bucky offered as Clint gestured to the empty seat.

“This isn’t your thing, is it?” Bruce pried. 

“Well… it’s _not_ ‘not my thing.’ I guess.” He pondered it a second. “Not. Totally.”

“Right,” Bruce replied. “Fair enough.”

“You want a coffee?” Clint asked him.

“Sure.”

“Good. Go get me one, too.” Clint smirked. Bucky rolled his eyes, but he flagged down a waitress in a goth Hello Kitty tee, ripped up jeans and black lipstick and nails. 

“The special today is the yerba mate. And try the lavender cookies.”

“Isn’t lavender usually… in soap?” Bucky inquired.

“And cookies,” she informed him haughtily. Her pencil was poised over her pad, ready for his order, eyes challenging him. Her expression didn’t hide that she thought Bucky was a bougie, unwashed heathen with no taste.

“Can I get something without lavender in it? Like a mocha…chino?” he attempted, hesitating.

“It’s good,” Bruce told him. 

“Make it two,” Clint piped up. “On him,” he added, pointing to Bucky, because he had no shame. Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, then nodded to the waitress with a shrug. She shrugged back and jotted down their order, then sauntered off. Bucky stared around the table at his new acquaintances – well, not brand-new, they were familiar to him after years of seeing them in the lunch lines and on the playground or study hall – and noticed they were a mish-mash of quirks and contrasts. Clint was sandy and fair, with boyish features and a slightly pug nose. He had an assortment of scars on his hands and he liked silver rings. He wore a ratty Radiohead tee, skinny jeans and Vans with holes in the toes. His tragus and eyebrow were pierced, and when he reached up to scratch his brow, Bucky winced. Bruce was short and stocky – not plump – swarthy, curly-haired, and had a tendency to duck his head a lot when you made initial eye contact. Which he was doing now, and Bucky reminded himself not to stare. Bruce’s clothes were impeccably tucked in and buttoned up, and he looked uncomfortable. Stifled. He snuck a glance at Peter while he guzzled a double mocha and talked animatedly about gaming. Bucky lost the gist of it after “I still haven’t unlocked that level” and felt his eyes glazing over. 

“I’m supposed to be studying for my physics mid-term,” Peter admitted, raking a hand through the hair at his nape.

“Sounds more important than a poetry slam,” Bucky said solemnly.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this,” Peter scoffed. 

“Why are we here again?” Bucky’s whisper was raspy as he leaned in toward Bruce. 

“Because Nat told us we would be. You don’t argue with Natasha Romanoff,” Bruce informed him as he wiped his glasses off on his sleeve to polish them. “Um. Thanks, by the way. For earlier.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Trust me. I was worried. Me losing these? It would’ve been bad. _Very_ bad.” Clint and Bucky’s coffees arrived, and Bucky watched a couple of workers fiddling with the lighting and the microphone up on the tiny stage. “Those guys are your friends, huh?” Bucky gave him a look, and Bruce ducked his face again. “Sorry. That sounded bad…”

“It’s okay.” Bucky took a sip of his drink, grimacing. They hadn’t sweetened it enough, and all he could taste was the bitter cocoa powder and woody-tasting coffee beans. “Ugh, that’s awful.”

“It grows on you,” Peter claimed. “Puts hair on your chest!”

“You look like somebody who ‘manscapes,’” Clint told Bucky.

“Thank… you?”

“Shut up, shut up! It’s starting,” Peter hissed, making silencing gestures as the emcee for the slam approached the mic. Bucky directed his attention to the stage, deciding not to take offense to Clint’s comment.

Not. Much.

“Thank you for coming to this year’s poetry slam-stravaganza, ladies and gentlemen. Show some appreciation for the lovely Natasha, our resident ‘Black Widow.’ Let’s welcome her to the stage. Natasha, come and share the good word.” The small gathering around them applauded generously, and Bucky watched the dusty-looking velvet curtain separate and recede, revealing the tiny redhead garbed all in black.

Natasha had changed and redone her makeup, lining her catlike green eyes in kohl and glossing her lips in deep red. She wore cruelly snug black leather pants, camisole and a sheer nylon top that emphasized how pale her skin was. Her titian hair gleamed under the stage lights, and to Bucky, she looked more intimidating than ever. Her tiny stature didn’t matter; Natasha Romanoff had _presence_. Beside Bucky, Clint looked infatuated. Awed. “That’s my girl,” he murmured dreamily.

He had it bad.

As soon as she opened her mouth, husking into the mic, Bucky knew why.

“Fireflies,

Fireflies,

Behind my eyes, I don’t know why

Been knocked down

Not quite out cold,

You threw me for a loop

When you showed up in those jeans

A not-so-common criminal

With that smirk that undressed me,

Knew all my secrets

Because that was my heart on my sleeve.

Like you tattooed it there,

Etched your heat onto my skin,

Stings like sweat dripping into my eyes. 

I could never keep my cool.

Never keep my cool around you.”

 

She paused, reading the crowd, then offered another gem.

“Hello, stranger.

Been a long time

Since you stopped by.

I can't remember the last time your lips kissed me

Or when your baby sweet skin 

grew seasoned and tanned,

Like a curing pelt, a map of scars and 

Half-picked mosquito bites.

I remember walking in the rain with you, 

Ducking under awnings to stay dry

Gripping your hand tight. 

You tasted like rain.

I’ve been nothing but thirsty since you’ve been gone.”

 

Clint leaned in toward Bucky. “Nat decided I was gonna be her boyfriend back in kindergarten. She wrote me poems all the time when I was in juvy.”

“That… sounds like love,” Bucky whispered back. Clint nodded emphatically. 

Nat continued to spit, and Bucky noticed the low, jazzy riff underscoring her words as the pianist and a drummer set the tone for her.

“Heart on my sleeve,

You made me believe

In ever after, happily,

Illogically,

Incomprehensibly,

Yet…beautifully.

You say you’re into me,

Into ‘we,’

A fearsome twosome

We knew some day

This could end

We might not still be friends.

We could burn down to the ground

Ashes still mingling in the dirt

Infusing the earth

Raising up flowers 

In the memory of what we had. 

Ashes mingling,

My pulse tingling,

Rushing

Beating

In my veins

In my brain

When you grip my hand in yours

And share the rain’s taste with me.”

She took a sharp, ragged breath, then closed her eyes.

“I’m still thirsty.”

The tinkle of the cymbals sped up and hit a crescendo, then died off. The metallic-sounding thrum was replaced by loud applause and whistles, and Bucky hesitated before joining in. A shrill whistle blasted a few feet away from Bucky, and he jerked around to find Steve Rogers, finger and thumb tucked into the corners of his mouth, giving his best friend some love. “Attagirl, Nat!” he cried out as Nat took a smug, pleased bow, then princess-waved her way off the stage. She made her way to her friends and reached out to squish Steve’s cheeks.

“You’re late,” she accused.

“Caught someone trying to cut my bike lock again.” She gave him a doubtful look. “I caught most of it,” he told her sheepishly. “It was deep.”

“Not as deep as the shit you’re in, waltzing in here _when it’s over._ ”

“I’m not that late, and look, these guys didn’t even save me a… seat. Um, hey.” Steve’s voice died as he finally saw one James Buchanan Barnes slouched in his seat, cooling mug of mocha with its depleted puff of foam and cream drizzling down the side, almost untouched. Steve saw a spark of amusement in those slate blue eyes as he leaned forward in his chair.

“Aren’t you supposed to be peddling tacos right about now?”

“Don’t you have any balls to kick somewhere other than here?” The awkwardness of his double entendre took a few seconds to hit him. Natasha, on the other hand, was biting her lip, Clint smothered a laugh, and Peter and Bruce choked on their drinks. Steve felt his blush creep over his face like a rash.

“Oh, I have _balls,_ Rogers.”

It was too much for Bruce, who promptly spit coffee down his chin. 

“Walked right into that one,” Peter muttered from behind his hand.

“See, Steve? Even Bucky thinks you need to be doing something else,” Nat accused before she sat down on Clint’s lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled his cheek, and Clint smiled up at her indulgently as she took a sip of his coffee.

“That… that wasn’t what I said,” Bucky argued.

“But you agree, right? Steve’s job sucks,” Natasha told him. 

“It’s a job, Natasha,” Steve retorted. “Besides, _this guy_ ,” he said, jerking his thumb toward Bucky, “wouldn’t know what it’s like to need a shitty job, and therefore has no right to an opinion on the subject.”

“So, you’re saying I can’t have an opinion?” Bucky said, looking wounded. Steve gave him his best _oh, please_ scowl.

“You _do_ hate working there, Steve, last time I checked,” Bruce chimed in.

“The uniform – with the, the hat – that’s not a good look on you, buddy,” Peter added, then held up his hands defensively when Steve redirected his glare. 

“Thanks,” he snapped.

“They do kinda treat you like dirt, buddy,” Clint reminded him.

“Why don’t you just have this place show some of your paintings?” Bucky asked. “Your stuff’s better than the ones hanging up now.”

Natasha made a noise of agreement, nodding. “See? Listen to the jock, Steven. He makes sense.” She poked Bucky reassuringly. “You actually do. I’m impressed.”

“Uh… thanks?”

Bruce nodded emphatically. “There you go. You have a few finished canvases laying around at home, don’t you, Steve?”

“Bruce… can it,” Steve hissed. 

“What? You do!” Bucky was staring at Steve with interest.

“So, bring some here! Talk to the manager,” Bucky said. “It’s not hard. Look, I’m you: Hi. My name’s Steve. I make nice art. Please hang it up and make me famous.” Bucky finished his demonstration with a very cheesy, un-Stevelike grin. “Okay, now you try.”

“Right. We’re done here,” Steve announced. “Nat, you brought the house down, as usual.”

“I try,” she said smugly, but she scowled as he scooped up his backpack, slung it onto his bony shoulder and strode off. “Steve, what’s your hurry?”

“Gotta bail,” he tossed back.

“Don’t… don’t leave on my account, Steve! ROGERS! Come back!” Bucky scrambled up out of his seat and fished his wallet out of his pocket. He fumbled with its folds and pulled out a twenty, tossing it at Clint. “Here. This should cover yours.”

“Thanks, bro,” he told him with a nod. “I owe you.” Bucky didn’t care. He darted through the crowd, past the junior high schoolers and the stoners at table four. Steve was already outside, and Bucky caught a glimpse of his waves of blond hair glinting in the late afternoon sun. His flannel shirt tails were flapping behind him as he rushed off, and his posture was stiff and angry. “ROGERS! Wait up!” Bucky called after him again.

“Get lost,” Steve muttered as he caught up to him. Bucky caught him by the arm and dragged him to a halt. Steve turned and glared up at him, lips thin, eyes hard behind his glasses.

“You don’t have to show up and embarrass me in front of everyone,” Steve accused. “It’s bad enough when you do it in front of _your_ friends.”

“I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.” Steve jerked his arm free and kept walking toward the corner. He angrily punched the walk light and waited for traffic to turn. “Steve, I was just making a suggestion.”

“Yeah. Sure. That was really helpful, Bucky.” His tone was bitter. 

“I was trying to be,” Bucky offered. The walk light came on, and Steve booked it down the crosswalk with Bucky in tow. “Why don’t you, though?”

“Why don’t I what?”

“Show your art. I’ve seen your stuff. It’s really good.” Steve glanced up at him and shook his head.

“Oh, you like my art, now?”

“Well, yeah. I do.” Steve opened his mouth to retort, then closed it. He glanced up at Bucky to see if he was kidding. Bucky’s expression was serious. “I really do.”

“Oh. Wow.” Steve stopped walking, straightened his backpack strap on his shoulder and adjusted his glasses. “Thanks, I guess.”

“So. Has Beans. Is that your usual scene?” Bucky inquired. Steve huffed and began walking again.

“Not all of us hang out at the gym twenty-four/seven.”

“I don’t, either. I still have to finish my calculus problems. They won’t do themselves.”

That gave Steve pause. “Calculus?”

“It’s _math_ , Steve.” 

“I know that!” He just wasn’t expecting Bucky to be taking calculus.

“I’m not dumb,” Bucky murmured.

“Never said you were.”

“You were projecting it. And do you always just assume things about people? First there’s Clint, telling me I probably manscape, and now you’re calling me a dumb jock, which I resent, by the way.”

“I didn’t- I didn’t call you a dumb jock! You’re not dumb, jerk!”

Bucky laughed. “Oh, that’s nice! THANKS, pal!” He gave Steve a slight shove, and Steve snickered despite himself as they both entered the parking garage. Steve headed for the narrow metal bike rack, and Bucky watched him unlatch his kryptonite lock.

“What were you even doing here, anyway?” Steve asked.

“Just hanging out. Getting some culture,” Bucky explained. “Parker invited me.”

“You weren’t even coerced?” Steve looked impressed. “See, with Nat, coercion is the name of the game, even though she calls it an ‘invitation.’ He made quotey fingers. “You don’t argue with Natasha.”

“I know this,” Bucky informed him. He folded his arms and appraised Steve. He was slightly rumpled and wind-blown from his bike ride there. “So. Poetry. Do you, uh, ever hang out anywhere else?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Well… me. Just, I wanted to know if you wanted to hang out, sometime.”

“Hang out. With _you_. Oh, you’ve _got_ to be kidding me!” Steve rolled his eyes and gave Bucky his full glare.

“What?”

“Nice try, pal. I almost fell for it.”

“Fell for what? I just asked if you want to hang out.”

“Guys like you never want to just ‘hang out’ with people like me,” Steve said as he straddled his bike, pushing off with his heel into a coast before he pedaled for the exit. “Goodbye!”

“Guys like me??” Bucky threw up his hands. What the heck did he do to deserve that?

Steve Rogers baffled him.

*

The next morning found Bucky in a foul mood. He walked past Tony and Rhodey canoodling against the side of Tony’s Maserati. They looked cozy and gooey and it sickened him. He ducked out of sight, craving solitude and a chance to drink his Gatorade in peace.

No such luck. “BUCKY!” Brock, Eddie and Flash practically pounced on him. “Where were you, dude?” Flash demanded. “Missed you at the kickback at Logan’s.”

“I was busy,” he told him.

“Busy with what?” Brock wanted to know, as if the concept of Bucky skipping a party was foreign to him.

Bucky braced himself. “I hit up a poetry reading. Had some coffee with a few… people.” It was a stretch calling them his friends, even though, Bucky admitted, it was _nice_ that Peter thought to invite him.

“Poetry? What kind of people have you been hanging out with? That sounds lame,” Brock said, wrinkling his nose.

“It was fine,” Bucky said simply.

“Who was there?” Flash asked.

“Natasha. Y’know, the little redhead.”

“You mean the little scary bitch!” Brock argued. “When did you start hanging out with _her?_ ”

“I just went to her reading. It was no big deal,” Bucky told him, shrugging. “And why do you even care?”

“You could’ve been at the party, finding a prom date,” Flash reminded him.

“Or we could order you a cardboard standee of Tony from Fathead, and you could pose with it for your prom photo,” Eddie suggested helpfully. Bucky gave him a rough shove.

“Dumb ass.”

“Hey, it was just an idea!”

“Tony Stark. Hard act to follow,” Brock reminded him.

“Pfftt… so what? You don’t think I can find someone else to take to the prom?”

“Probably not any girls, now,” Brock said.

“Hey, they’re all fair game,” Flash said. “Right, Bucky? You don’t just like guys?”

Bucky shrugged. “He’s right,” he told Brock and Eddie. “I kinda like both.”

“Right.” Flash clapped his hands. “This just got easier.”

“What just got easier?”

“Finding you a date for the prom.”

“What? Like it’s HARD? I can find a date! And my date will be just as hot – no, ten times _hotter_ \- than Tony Stark,” he boasted.

“Tony’s probably gonna be prom king,” Flash mused.

“So? I’m nominated,” Bucky pointed out. “And my date has a chance at prom queen just by showing up with me.”

“If you go with a _girl_ ,” Flash qualified.

“Right. Whatever,” Bucky said, waving him off. “Still… Tony’s hot, but he’s all flash. There’s no substance.”

“You were fine with “no substance” for a long time, Bucky. You sure you remember how it’s done?” Flash teased, elbowing Brock.

“He can’t do it. I bet he can’t,” Brock added.

“I can. You don’t want to make that bet against me,” Bucky boasted. “Look.” He pointed at a random girl walking through the courtyard. She was a pleasant-looking brunette wearing a baggy tee and capri pants, no makeup and carrying a large hobo bag. “She’s decent. You could bring her home to Mom. She doesn’t really get your blood flowing right now, but a little makeup, change up what she has on, and BAM! She’s a hottie. She could be prom queen. Especially if she shows up with the right guy.” His smile was smug as he held out his arms. “Like _this_ guy.”

“Are you serious? Get over yourself, Barnes!” Brock scoffed. “She was okay, but okay, how about _that one?_ ” He pointed to a tall, chubby blond whose low-rise jeans revealed an unfortunate glimpse of her pink cotton bikini briefs while she leaned in toward her open locker door, staring into the tiny magnetic mirror there while she squeezed a zit like her life depended on it.

“Ooh. Hnnn… I don’t know.”

“You love a challenge,” Brock told him. 

“Nah.”

“Everyone’s fair game,” Flash said. “That means guys, too. Like, that one!” He pointed to a skinny guy attempting to grind a rail on his skateboard, who failed spectacularly, catching metal with his balls. Bucky and his friends all yelped, “OOOOOOOOO!” and winced in sympathy.

“No,” Bucky said.

“You need a challenge,” Brock told him. “The perfect date’s gonna come walking around that corner any minute now.”

Like clockwork, Steve Rogers trudged up the short flight of concrete steps, promptly tripped over the top one, and he went sprawling, art supplies flying in all directions.

“Bingo,” Brock chortled.

“We have a winner,” Flash announced.

“Ooh-la-la,” Eddie crooned.

“No,” Bucky said flatly.

“C’mon, Barnes, go get ‘im!” Flash urged. “You said you can turn anyone into a prom queen!”

“Consort, kinda,” Brock corrected him. “Would that work? Two prom kings? Prom… partners?” Flash and Eddie shrugged cluelessly.

“It doesn’t matter, because there’s no way I’m asking him,” Bucky told them.

“Sounds like you’re backing out of the bet.” Brock folded his arms. “You chicken?”

“What? No! Hell, no!”

“Then, what are you waiting for? Go. Ask him.”

Bucky’s chin jutted stubbornly. “What are the stakes?”

“If you win, you win. Prom King is its own reward,” Brock said. “If you lose, let’s just make that a surprise. Spice things up a bit.”

His dark eyes were calculating, and Bucky always hated it when he looked like that. It creeped him out. He held out his hand, and they fist-bumped to seal the deal. Bucky turned from them and hurried to Steve, where he was struggling to pick up all of his writing implements and paint tubes, stuffing them into his overpacked art folio.

“Here, let me help,” Bucky offered as he began to scoop up his things and hand them to him, and of course Steve’s face was flushed with embarrassment. People were staring at him without sympathy, because they were used to seeing clumsy Steve Rogers trip and face-plant on any given day of the week. 

“Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s okay, because I’m kinda glad I caught you, Steve. See, I was wondering if-“

“I have to get to class,” Steve interjected before he hustled off.

“-you… just wanted to leave me hanging. In front of everybody,” Bucky said into thin air. “Nice. Nice job, Barnes.”

He began to really sweat when he contemplated what Brock would make him do if he _lost._


End file.
